


Roses Burning Blue

by euphoriaontoast



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Yurio's potty mouth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphoriaontoast/pseuds/euphoriaontoast
Summary: Katsuki Yuri once put a crown of blue roses on Victor Nikiforov's head. Sometimes it feels like he hasn't taken it off since.Yuri Plisetsky gets run over by a very fancy car. Otabek Altin will do just about anything to make up for it.





	1. Prologue

Victor met fate when he was seventeen years old. 

It comes back to him in flashes, like the heartbeat of a memory that's still alive somewhere. 

He'd stepped off the podium with a gold medal hanging around his neck. All majesty and grace in a pearl white outfit, he whirled around the ice with the brightest smile on his face, waving to the faceless crowd and bending down to pick up the roses until they spilled from his arms. It's a beautiful thing, he thought, of all things, to have roses thrown at your feet.

He stepped off the ice, slipped the guards over his skating blades and marched off backstage, receiving hugs from his fellow competitors who ruffled his hair out of its ponytail. 

Victor walked aimlessly down the maze of corridors, away from the screams and cheers that still resonated in his ears, relieved to have a roof low over his head. He lived for the clamors that inflated his pride and made him feel like he could tower over anyone but right then, if Victor had been fit to get into a box of matches, he would have crawled in and slept. 

He stopped walking when he realized he was out of breath, leaned against the wall and let the armful of roses fall in a half circle at his feet as the first sob shook through his heaving lungs. He slid down the wall to his ankles and cried his exhaustion until he felt able to stand again. He wiped the tears away from his eyes and when he opened them, he jumped to his feet with a start.

He chuckled. ''You scared me..."

The little boy stood in front of him straight as a soldier, mortified with his hands clasped behind his back. With a head of neatly brushed black hair, he looked up the looming height of the young champion who was even taller since sporting his skates. Unblinking, his dark brown eyes set and focused held Victor's gaze even as it traveled him up and down, weighing him. 

"Don't tell anyone I was crying," Victor said. ''People have yet to see me like this.'' 

The boy didn't say a word, and if he registered any of Victor's words, didn't show any sign of it. So Victor babbled on.

''What are you even doing here? Did you get lost? This place isn't open to the public.'' 

The silence was turning awkward, with Victor sniffing and sweating down the back of his clingy outfit. Then it dawned on him like a brick. 

They're in Japan. The boy is Japanese, he just doesn't speak English. He sighed, finding some kind of relief before taking interest in what the little stranger held so tight onto. He tried taking a peak behind his back.

''What are you hiding?" 

A drop of sweat rolled down the side of his face as the boy slowly brought his shaky hands in front of him. He then bowed to Victor ceremoniously, presenting him a crown of blue roses. 

Victor bent down to his knee to inspect it. The flowers were tightly woven together, each of the same size and same royal blue as the other, all in full bloom. Victor had no doubt they had been thoughtfully chosen and crafted with care. He felt the petals with the tip of his nose. They smelled the same as any rose of regular color and felt just as soft and real. 

''Aren't you going to put it on my head?" 

Victor smiled at the flustered boy who slowly rose to his full height. His eyes gleamed with emotion. With trembling hands he lowered the crown onto his senior's silver locks, now free of any pins and ties. It added sharpness to the youth of his traits, the frame of roses making the icy blue of his eyes even colder, bringing out speckles of navy and honey like bluebirds on a winter sky. 

The boy smiled at his achievement. He met the skater's gaze again, and only then Victor felt like a true champion. No, he felt like a king.

''I am honored,'' he said and meant it. ''What is your name?" 

A blush reddened his cheeks. His mouth first opened on unspoken words before he found his voice. ''Yuri.'' 

Victor beamed, glad to finally hear a word out of him. ''Thank you, Yuri.'' 

He rose from the ground, wrapped in delicate essence, like a blessing. Yuri tilted his head up at him, admiration swimming in the brown pools of his eyes and whether he knew it or not, whether he cared, his lips stretched in a starstruck smile. Victor had yet to ever be looked at in such a vulnerable, unadulterated way and was just as surprised when his gloved palm brushed against Yuri's face. Then he leaned in, and kissed his cheek. 

''Thank you, Yuri,'' he repeated. 

Yuri stopped breathing then. He couldn't, or didn't bother. But in any case, he felt as if his whole body turned to stone, then to water. 

If he had known that Victor was about to take him by the hand and introduce him to all the competitors, maybe he would have shut his mouth. But instead he took a deep breath, and uttered in a heavy beginner's accent what was to be Victor's long-lasting curse. 

''I love you, Victor,'' he said. His lips tremored as he spoke, as did his eyes. Maybe he couldn't help it then, the heart-shaped kiss still burning on his cheek when he added, ''more than anyone else, ever.'' 

Victor's eyes widened, grey eyelashes fluttering with the beat of his heart, torn between shock and flattery, before settling on amusement.

He scoffed, hand to his hip. ''Is that so?" 

Yuri nodded.

''How old are you?" 

''Thirteen.'' He paused uncertainly before adding, ''I don't have the words to say it now, but one day I will.''

Silence fell between them.

The crown weighed heavy on Victor's head. His chuckles subsided and died in his chest. Somewhere inside he knew he felt offended, hurt even, though he couldn't quite pinpoint where. He wanted to put him back in his place, this boy who appeared out of nowhere, looked at him like he was the world and told him he loved him more than anyone ever would. Of course he didn't mean it. He was a thirteenyear old who didn't know anything about love and had yet to learn to live, to trust, to lie. So if someone had loved Victor then, as he was seventeen, maybe he would have tried harder not to believe Yuri.

But he did.

Victor realized then, that maybe there was nothing to correct. He didn't know what to make of that.

''I don't know what to say.'' 

''You don't have to say anything now, either.''

Victor felt bitterness on his lips. And although he wore a smile he was pretty sure he was frowning. Yuri gave a deep bow and retreated down the corridor, turning once to look at him behind his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.

Victor was unaware of how long he stood there, eyes unfocused towards where the boy disappeared. The cheers had died down and a strange feeling of loneliness gripped at his insides. He started picking up the roses he'd dropped earlier when a hand touched his back. He jumped, eyes ready to pop as he turned around. 

Relief washed over him as he was met with an equally appalled Christophe Giacometti. 

''What are you doing here?'' he asked. ''Everyone's looking for you. Yakov said to tell you he's disowning you if you're late for the afterparty.''

Victor laughed, trying to shake off the remaining effects of his most recent memories.

''He wants to show me off,'' he sighed, ''ever the Russian dad.'' 

''Can't blame him. You're his best card. Best card he ever had, probably.'' 

Victor tilted back, one graceful hand rising to his chest in mock surprise. ''Is that a compliment you're paying me, Christophe?" 

''Yes, my dear, but don't get too used to it. I'm quite intent on getting the gold next season, to complement my eyes on the photos.'' He winked seductively.

''I don't know...bronze brings out your ambers pretty nicely. You can try for silver if you're feeling adventurous.'' 

''You're never letting go, are you?" Chris beamed at him with mischief.

Victor smiled at his friend and then, without any notice swooped him into his arms, holding him as close and tight as he could. 

''Are you alright? You're beside yourself since I found you here.''

''I'm okay.''

''Where did you get this?'' Chris touched the crown on Victor's head. ''It's real! Wonder how that's possible.'' 

Victor lowered his head for Chris to get a smell of the flowers.

''Me too, Chris.'' 

That was a long time ago. The time Victor won his first gold medal and loved the heavy weight of it around his neck. The time he sneaked out with a bottle of champagne and got drunk with Chris. The time they were there. All of them.


	2. Blue Rose

Yuri stands naked in front of the mirror. 

He eyes himself carefully from head to toe. A pained grimace has made its way onto his face a good few minutes ago. He doesn't like what he's seeing, and he's been staring for so long that he's becoming restless, going over every detail, pushing his glasses up each time they slightly ride down his nose. He fixes his posture, back straight and stomach tight. He wants his reflection in the full length mirror to look strong but it doesn't seem to work, no matter how hard he flexes his biceps and chest muscles. 

By now he knows the tough act is all but a desperate attempt. He's working up a sweat, eyes teary with the strain of effort. Because in spite of it his arms remain slender and his skin stretches over his bones, carving clavicles and shoulders into him like a clay statue's. He touches his ribs, visible through his front and back and stops when he counts one too many. Letting the air out of his lungs, his chest deflates to a much weaker stance. It's hard to even breathe when he's that exhausted. He feels dizzy, discouraged, thinks maybe this is it this time. 

He readjusts his glasses again but it's no use. He can't recognizes himself. Like a word that's lost its meaning after being repeated too many times, he's lost sight of himself, of the look in his eyes, the shape of his mind, all but a blur of features, fading in and out of the background of his own life. 

He's not the boy he used to be, the one with the bright eyes and shy smile that brought out kindness in people from places in their hearts they didn't know were there. It's clear to him that he strayed from that boy a long time ago. But now what remains of him is not the heart, but only the shell. Now he's just the fading man with a bony back and hollow cheeks who gave up part of him to be another person and ended up nobody. A stranger, or even less. And Yuri's sure it isn't fair. Because all those years ago, when he stood gazing at a rising star, he didn't realize he was taking an oath, trading the better part of his future for a mere memory.  
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, counting the cuts and bruises on each one, the ugly bumps on his toes and the scars that have yet to fade on his crooked ankles. He wonders if they're beyond repair by now. He remembers the time when they symbolized his strength, how they hurt so much he could barely walk, how it didn't matter because he would crawl if he had to, anything he had to do not to give up. Back then he didn't know that not giving up didn't mean he stood a chance, but now Yuri sees the scars as they really are; meaningless traces of his own decay, of all the struggles he glorified because they were all he ever had to remind him that he was alive, that he once had a dream he could fight for. And he did fight, with all his might. But as the weak, hungry, tired man stares back at him in the mirror, he's certain it was all pointless. 

He tears his eyes away from himself and sits down on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, back flat against the mirror. Loneliness seeps into his heart as if it were a sponge. And Victor sits in front of him. He's clad in dark green satin pajama bottoms, one leg curled in as he hugs the other to his chest. The early autumn weather is still fairly hot, so it makes sense that he would be so lightly dressed. It's nothing to worry about. He stares vaguely at the sky out the window, bathing in the light of early evening, bored but not restless, not like he has anywhere else to be. Instead a soft smile tugs at his heart-shaped lips, like he's simply enjoying Yuri's company in the intimacy of his room. 

Yuri tries to mimick the smile, paint the same emotion on his face, but it doesn't look quite as authentic, sadness etched into his irises and dripping from his lashes. Nevertheless his eyes cling onto the man, taking in as much of his pearl white skin, silver streaks and freckles as he can because when he blinks again, Viktor is gone. 

Yuri sighs. He wants to cry, shed tears and be done with them, but even those won't come to him. He curses himself for holding onto the picture after it's gone. Illusions and borrowed images have strange ways of affecting the truth, Yuri knows, they've been a part of his life for so long he sometimes forgets where to draw the line between what is there and what he made up, but on days like this, when he feels so hollow that he thinks he's reached the bottom of himself and Victor just won't show, he knows he's been alone all along.

So Yuri just sits in silence. He hasn't gone mad. All he ever had in life was a dream that he knew wouldn't come true unless he dreamed it into existence, which he did quite successfully. So maybe he went a little mad. He was always sure it was worth it, but now that his dream has consumed the best part of him and left him sick, he's not sure he wants it anymore. There is no Victor Nikiforov, after all. Not in his house, or in his life, or in Hasetsu, anyway. Maybe what Yuri needs is to say goodbye. 

He pushes the thought away like it bit him, yet doubt seizes him like a vicious cramp. What if it's too late for him? What if he's so far gone already that nothing will look the same once he's back, if there is still a way back? And what if he hates it? What then?

He gets to his feet and steps into a pair of sweatpants before making his way to the kitchen. He grabs an apple from the counter and when he turns around, finds Victor sitting at the table. This time he looks worried, apologetic, and the sight of him breaks Yuri's heart in two because it's as if he knows what Yuri is going through is all his fault and Yuri can't stand his own guilt in the matter. His eyes finally fill with tears and while he can't see him, he seizes the chance to bust the lie he created, throwing the apple with all his might. But instead the fruit hits Viktor's cheekbone so hard Yuri hears the crack of it as it splits open.  
He gasps, heart about to leap out of his chest as his hands come up to cover his face, shaking all over.

''I'm sorry...'' The silence breaks with muffled cries. ''I'm so sorry...'' 

The first thing Yuri sees when he opens his eyes is the fruit lying open on the floor, and when he dares look at Viktor again, all he sees is a dent in the wall, dripping with apple juice. 

He grips the counter behind him to steady himself. His glasses are blurry with fingerprints but he adjusts them anyway. Outside the fading day fills the room with shadows, getting darker by the minute as even the silence grows.

He heads back to his room in large strides. Turning the lights on, he goes straight for the mirror, pressing his forehead and both his palms against the glass. His eyes fall shut as he takes a deep breath, letting it fill the space of his thoughts, completely still. A wave of dizziness shakes his balance. At this point consciousness is but a few little stars dancing before his eyes, going in circles in and out of reach. When Yuri finally pulls back and opens his lids, he heaves a sigh of relief. 

He sees himself, Katsuki Yuri, this time from the right side of the looking glass instead of the opposite. The gaunt figure lingers for a moment, but only as a memory of a dream as he takes in his appearance; belly flat but taut, waist all but narrow. His shoulders frame a firm if not strong pair of arms and his face, though hopelessly tired and pale, isn't gawky in the slightest. He touches himself all over, so thrilled to find so much flesh on his body that a nervous laugh escapes him. 

He is alright. 

After a moment he strips again, puts on clothes haphazardly and dashes outside, only one thing on his mind.

And if Yuri looked up to his window as he walked down the street and around the corner, to check for instance if he turned out all the lights in his apartment before going out, he would dismiss what he would see in the adjacent apartment as another trick of his mind trying to lure him back in front of the mirror. But Yuri lives in the dark, and he couldn't care less about the electricity bill or what could be happening next door, so he walks fast and head down, on his way to his favorite place to eat. He sits on his own at a table on the front terrasse and orders a pork cutlet bowl.

He dreads coming back home but when he does, the house is silent, empty, that is, of anyone other than him. Yuri tries not to feel put out, to push the events of earlier as far as he can from memory, let them be an inconvenience, rather than the norm. 

He slips into bed, body comfortable in all the space it occupies and instead of smothering him, the silence envelops him in a dreamy calm. He thinks maybe this time he can beat his habits. The will to live builds up in his chest as he dozes on and off, his mind absently making a list of the next day's tasks. 

Before he falls asleep, he makes a mental note of watering the flowers.

The next morning is exquisitely uneventful. At least at first. 

Yuri wakes up to a streak of sunshine warming his cheek. It makes him smile in spite of him, like a caress, a tender gesture to begin his day with before he's even opened his eyes. He loves the fact that he overslept on a Monday morning, that a Monday could even feel this nice. He won't be going to school, much less attending any lectures and for once doesn't feel guilty about it. There are only so many days he can skip with the excuse of medical issues but even though he feels great, and precisely because he woke up feeling that way, he decides he's going to make the most out of it, like a secret little vacation before his mind catches up and decides it's time to give him hell again. 

But Yuri feels hopeful. Optimistic, even. So even though he's not used to seeing the glass half full, it suffices that he's glad it's not trying to poison him.

After cleaning the remains of apple off the kitchen floor, he goes about making lunch, stretching while 'I'd Rather Be Blue' by Fanny Brice blares from his phone speaker. He even sings a little, even though he's never received any praise for it. And when the sunshine fades by the end of the afternoon and the only task left for the day is to water his plants, Yuri's pretty proud of himself. He steps onto the platform of his balcony, obstructed by flower pots and leaves climbing up the railing. In the air he can almost smell the scent of autumn, like a promise mingling with the soft heat of the end of summer, and it softens his heart with melancholy.

He kneels down to inspect his little garden, skimming his hand over the petals the way he loves to do. Even with his eyes closed he can tell exactly what's underneath his fingertips, what's rough and what's smooth and what's like velvet. It's almost too much, Yuri thinks, how good it all smells, a heaven of roses, chrysanthemum and begonia reminding him of tender childhood days. He tries not to think about it, to only give care where it's needed. The little jasmine pot he was given years ago is now as tall as him. He'll have to trim it where it branched off, trespassing all the way onto the next balcony. He has to do it, he knows, respect others' property, but a part of him wants to know just how long it can grow without interruption and he just can't bring himself to. His eyes follow the leaves tattered with white flowers to the end of the branch, and when they lock with two piercing blue ones, his body tenses all over.

''Sorry, have I scared you?" 

It's déjà vu, Yuri thinks, only a little different. 

''You've wandered quite far from home,'' he ventures. With that said, he pulls out a weed off a pot of mint perched on the railing.

''I suppose I did.'' Victor's voice is slow, almost a slur, as if he's on autopilot.

''Sorry for your eye...'' Yuri doesn't dare look at him, at the purple swelling crescent underneath his right eye. Maybe if he doesn't look at him long enough, he'll just disappear, Yuri thinks. It's still a pretty day.

''It's okay. My own fault,'' Victor says.

Yuri's heart tightens as he steals just a glance in the older man's direction. Victor doesn't seem to notice or care. Hand on his chin, his focus is on Yuri's fiddling fingers, dirty with mud.

''You have such a pretty garden,'' he says, ''mine's a little sad.''

''Yours?'' 

''I suppose it's mine while I'm here.'' Victor runs a hand through his short silver hair, considering the possibility of gardening with mixed feelings.

''What brought you over there in the first place?" Yuri looks at him this time. ''I hope you're not angry.''

''Angry?'' Victor tastes the word in his mouth long enough that Yuri feels inadequate to have asked. ''I'm- I mean... I'm not angry.''

Yuri's only half relieved. In the back of his mind he knows something's off. Not wrong, really, just off.  
''I'm...a little sad,'' Victor says. ''Maybe very much so, even. So I guess that should explain a little why I'm so far from my home country. I needed to get away.'' 

Yuri's throat goes dry. 

He's not heaving, but he's not breathing either. He doesn't need to. The world around him slows to a lull as he takes in the sight of Victor, conscious this time that seeing is perceiving. It makes him think of one of those moments, those little bubbles in time that only last a few fleeting seconds but during which fantasy and reality become the same, and have always been the same because every dream lies within arm's reach, maybe at the end of a jasmine branch, floating like the speckles of dust you can only see in the sun and make you wonder how and why it's impossible to see them otherwise. Those you end up remembering forever, knowing with burning certainty within the moment that every single thing, whatever it is, is perfect. A moment Yuri had only ever experienced once before in his life. The words come to him, but don't feel quite real enough to be said, or maybe if spoken would break into pointless consequence. 'Do you know you're a miracle?' Yuri thinks of asking, almost does, and doesn't.

Seeing as Yuri isn't responding, Victor takes to examining his own garden. A few miserable pots of ill-looking branches and yellowing leaves, most of which he can't even tell the name of. ''What even are these?''

Yuri manages to swallow, because he knows. ''Geraniums.''

''They look...well, they don't compare to much. They're in a pretty bad state.''

''You also have roses, over there.'' Yuri gestures to the bigger pot in the corner, noticing then how badly his hands are shaking. 

''What, this?'' Victor points at the odd branches sticking out with a judgmental finger, making the corners of Yuri's lips twitch into a smile without his knowing. He's sweating, trying to keep his expressions guarded because if he doesn't maintain some look of composure, he's sure he's going to faint.

''It's just a bush now, but I think it will give roses pretty soon.''

''You're right! It has those little buttons.''

''Burgeons.''

''Burgeons.'' Victor mimicks. ''But they're going to be red...'' For a brief moment, darts of mischief shine in the eye that isn't covered by his bangs. ''How come yours are blue? I've always wondered about it.''

Yuri feels a full smile tugging at his lips, then stretching onto his face like water irrigating a dry riverbed. He closes his eyes for a second to enjoy it. ''That's my little secret.''

On his side of the balcony, Victor is watching, a look of stalactites, dripping seduction from the smirk on his light pink lips. ''Will you tell me?''

''No.''

The answer comes to him with no surprise, and doesn't affect him because the moment their eyes meet, every word spoken splits in two, a double shot to different targets. He's just surprised the boy knows how to aim. ''Why not?''

''You wouldn't like them so much if I told you. It's the mystery that draws you in,'' Yuri explains. ''They'd be pretty boring roses if everyone knew the secret behind them. Like magic tricks.''

''Like people?'' Victor draws his own arrow.

''Like people, too.'' And shoots.

''Well, they sure are a sight,'' Victor sighs. Yuri nods, then turns crimson when his eyes lock with Victor's. He looks the other way.

''You should water them,'' he says after a while.

''Hm? The roses?''

''The geraniums. It seems someone took care of the roses. But the geraniums were given the cold shoulder.''

Victor scrutinizes the dead-looking plant with rightful skepticism. It doesn't even have flowers, barely a few yellow leaves and to be honest, Yuri doesn't even know whether it could be saved, he just wanted to say something.

''I wouldn't put a bet on those geraniums, either,'' Victor says.

''They may not look like much,'' Yuri concedes, ''but they can be the light of your heart if you take care of them.''

Victor perks with interest at Yuri's choice of words. ''Really. How so?''

''Well, there are lots of hidden meanings behind them.''

''Like what?"

''Foolishness.'' 

Victor chuckles. ''Why would I want to take care of a flower with a meaning like that?''

''We're all a little foolish, sometimes.''

''So?''

''We still deserve to be taken care of, don't we?''

Victor's brows furrow in thought, but confirmation never comes. ''And what else do they mean?''

''Kindness...'' Yuri tries to remember. ''Friendship.''

''Friendship,'' he scoffs. ''Not really my forte these days. I'm afraid I'll end up killing it.''

''You'd have to be a really bad friend. It's hard to kill a geranium.''

''And what if that's what I am?'' 

Victor's smile stays on. And Yuri knows by now that it's just about holding his face together, tight thread and needles pinning a composed look on his features like a carnival mask. In fact he's almost sure that Victor's not feeling a thing, except perhaps pain, so he chooses his next words carefully.

''I think...'' He swallows. ''With a little care, and a little patience, you can get better. Revive it.''

Victor's eyes soften, but the face underneath the mask isn't fooled. ''Well, uh...'' he trails.

''Yuri.'' It slips past his lips before he has time to think it through, but there's no going back. His core tightens as if anticipating a blow as he waits for a look of recognition to cross Victor's face and when it does, it feels like a bolt of lightning struck him.

''Yuri? I know a Yuri."

"Oh."

''Back in Russia.''

''Oh...''

In reality it feels more like 'Ow', more like a stone just dropped inside his stomach, but in a way it also feels like relief. This is for the best, he tells himself, just for the sake of keeping face.

''Well, Yuri,'' Victor carries on where he left off, ''you seem to know a whole lot about feelings.''

''I don't know about feelings,'' he says, his voice meek, ''but I know a bit about flowers.''

Silence falls softly between them, without need for interruption, like rain.

''I wonder what color these are once in bloom,'' Victor says, once he's taken a liking to his geranium. Not such a bad plant, after all.

Yuri smiles at the sight of him. ''You could find out.''

Victor smiles back, and this time his eyes crinkle at the corners.

''I guess I could.''

That night Yuri doesn't try to sleep. He's sure he'll never sleep again, that his heart could burst in his chest at any given moment. But at some point he cries himself to exhaustion. And in the apartment next door, so does Victor.


	3. Tiger Lily

Yuri is convinced he's doing the right thing. 

More his own thing than what he was told to do, but that hasn't stopped him before, and it won't stop him now. It's already costing him a semi-permenent crease between his eyebrows, but that's just how he is. He was born impulsive, the blood in his veins guiding him along the narrow line of what feels right on ice skating blades, not always comfortable, not always confident, but unwavering if anything, only ever increasing in speed. Yuri's a gunshot, and he won't think. He already fell all of twelve times and has come to the point where his efforts feel empty, rage like a black shroud around his head, blinding him from all common sense as he runs on pure instinct but his heart knows; that treacherous stubborn thing could have sworn he saw it beforehand when in a split second he was in the air, spinning for all he's worth and landing an untrusting, wobbly quadruple toe loop. 

It's such a relief he wants to cry it out, scream it to the echoing walls of the building and let it all out of him so victory can finally sink in. But when he opens his mouth, only a choked cry comes out and he falls to his knees, hugging his feeble body to himself and filling his lungs with so much oxygen he's dizzy. But it's worth it. It's so worth it Yuri could just lie there forever, freezing numb and smiling because now he can breathe, he can live with himself, the promise of sore bruises soon to be forgiven now that they've forged him. A look of pure insolent determination crosses his hostile green eyes, unbarred. He's closer now. He's getting there. 

He rises to his feet onto his blades, thinking through the possibility of another jump, but his core is screaming at him, and he knows he won't make it. He stops, dazed and heavy-headed, out of strength. He makes a few rounds around the rink on shaky legs before deciding to call it a day. 

On the other side of the rink, Yakov stands stoic, arms crossed over his chest and just about ready to blow a fuse as Yuri skates back towards him, out of his reach just in case. He doesn't look like he's going to yell. Yuri wishes he would because then it wouldn't feel like he's ready to give up on him for good this time, just like every other time. He wishes he could wipe the sharp edges off the daggers in his coach's eyes with the eraser tip of a pencil, draw something else instead; flowers or something, for a change. Tiger lilies, maybe. The thought makes Yuri chuckle to himself.

''I don't see what's to smile about.''

''What, you didn't see it?"

''Didn't see what, Yuri?" The boy rolls his eyes. He hates it, the little game he's always made to play along, to learn his lessons. Yuri has no use for lessons, and it would be high time Yakov sees it. But he knows he had it coming, so he braces himself, all while affecting ignorance.

''My quad-"

''What I saw, Yuri, is that you fell a dozen times, missed two hip injuries by centimeters and that you won't walk properly for days, let alone skate.''

Then it doesn't take more than ten seconds of silence between them for the hurt to sink in, breaking every ounce of pride Yuri ever had in what he did. But he did it, didn't he? He landed the damned quadruple toe loop, a feat no other skater of his division under Yakov's wing could gloat about so far. And that makes him different, he should know, and the man should see it; he's even got the battle scars to prove it was nothing short of glorious. So Yakov can yell all he wants, lose the remainder of his hair and glare a hole in Yuri's head, but to deny him that, that is cruel even by Yuri's standards. The boy doesn't understand for the life of him how his own coach could act so clueless, mad over a couple of bruises that won't matter in a week's time. It never was part of the game. And he doesn't want to play anymore.

''You just don't see it, do you?" Yuri's voice is strained, though the scream in intent is clear. ''I work harder at this than all the fools around here, and anyone you've ever trained.''

''And you think exhausting your body is going to do you any good in the long run?'' 

''Exhaustion is temporary. I won't feel my legs tomorrow and so what? I'll come and train anyway. In no time I'll master that jump and when I make it into competition-''

''If you make it into competition.''

''Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Yakov stops himself a second short of telling the boy to mind his language. He's defeated, shaking his head, because the look Yuri gives him is the same one he dreaded to ever see again in his career. A look that makes the sturdy tower of his convictions waver like a castle of cards on a windy day, but there it is, fifteen years old, eyes full of dread, untrusting, you let me down. And Yakov hates him for it, hates that it has to be Yuri Plisetsky, of all people. But then again, if not Yuri, then who? Wretched goth kid. Impossible. Incomparable.

''Your insolent brain can only think as far as the next grand prix final,'' he says to him. ''But what if you don't win? What if you don't even make it into the team?"

Yuri looks at him for a second too long, as if to give Yakov the chance to change his mind, to say he's joking, because he can't possibly have said what Yuri heard, can he? But Yakov doesn't change his mind. The boy scoffs, unbelieving, like his coach just told him to make a clockwise rotation, like he betrayed every piece of logic he's ever taught him.

''So you don't even think I can make it?'' Yuri hates the incredulous crack in his voice when the words come out, because he knows that's where his own doubt lies, where Yakov will hit next. And surely it's what he does.

''What I think is there are dozens of skaters worldwide who outrank you by several years of experience that a few months of training won't make you catch up with. You're only fifteen years old, for God's sake."

''And I'm the best of what you've got.''

''What you have now is potential. But don't get ahead of yourself, Plisetsky. I've had better.''

''Who? Victor? Well he's not coming back after what happened last, is he?''

''He'll come back when he's ready.''

''I wouldn't count on it if I were you. He resigned from competing for good and went off to Japan. He just didn't have the guts to tell you.''

Yakov scans the younger face for traces of irony but finds none. ''How would you know?"

''I asked him to choreograph my senior debut. I knew I couldn't rely on your old ass to make me win.''

Yakov's narrow glare widens in shock. It's so like Yuri to have done such a thing he doesn't know why he's so surprised, but for a moment he's speechless, and Yuri's spitting fire.

''But he refused," he goes on. ''I don't care, he's messed up anyway. But the point is, he left for good, and with him gone, nothing and no one will stand in my way. So you'd better make the best you can out of me.''

Yakov purses his lips, staring intently at the cold eyes holding his, unable to make the difference between Yuri and the monster eating at him. 

The bruises on his legs and shoulders, the strained, aching muscles, the broken yet beating heart, Yakov can't see any of what's beneath Yuri's elegant training attire. Beyond appearance, it's hard to picture him ever having been the sweet little boy he once was. Tiny blond head with size seven skates and the biggest eyes Yakov had seen in his life. He wants to ask if he really failed him, but doubts the answer will clear his worries. He fears all is left of the boy is a bitter hole in a body that only wants to win, win, win. But he to believe he's still somewhere in there, because the skates may be a different size now but they haven't come off. But although their eyes meet and the tension between them could be cut with a knife, he just can't seem to find Yuri. Little Yura. It used to roll off his tongue so easily. But then maybe that's all there ever was to him. Maybe the boy just grew into himself; an ungrateful young man with greed for dreams.

''You disappoint me, Yuri.'' 

''That's not what you told the press when I was wearing gold last season,'' the boy counters.

''I don't know why I bother training you if I can't even kick some sense into you.''

''I don't know why you bother training me if you don't believe I can win!'' The look in Yuri's eyes is hard and soft at the same time, but lethal nonetheless.

He takes off his skates right then and there and marches towards the locker room barefoot. He doesn't know how he can manage to go about when everything inside him feels broken and his body's like an apple somebody played tennis with. It's all the stupid old hag's fault. He changes into a pair of gray sweatpants, a clean shirt and the biggest sweater he owns, wishing Mila was there because it kills him to even tie his shoes. Maybe it's better that she's not.

He makes his way out onto the street, the road back home looking more like a journey across the world than across the city. He thinks of Victor then, for some reason. What a traitor. But he won't let Yakov have the last word. To hell with Nikiforov, he'll surpass him in a heartbeat. He'll win the Grand Prix Final. And the next one afterwards. And then Yakov will see. What Yuri himself doesn't see is the car coming right at him as he's crossing the road, head down in his thoughts, like a punishment from above.

There's a brief flash of pain, then for a moment that lasts a beat too long, Yuri can't figure out what happened, why he's suddenly thrown off balance, why he can't see anything. He realizes he's shut his eyes too tight and when he opens them someone is shaking his shoulders, looking at him with brown eyes upside down and his head screams at him that he's had enough spinning for the day.

''Stop it...'' 

''You hear me? Are you alright?"

Is he? When he regains his balance and focus, the implicit consequences of the incident hit him with a wave of panic. He sits upright, unable to tell what hurts from training or from being hit by- a fucking Aston Martin, of all things. He blinks. In his shaken state he thinks it almost makes it alright. Yuri Plisetsky only gets hit by the best-

''My leg..!" 

A stain of wet red darkens the gray of his sweatpants from his left knee all the way to his ankle and it dawns on him like the sight of death at the edge of a cliff, that if he broke it, if he can't train, can't compete- if he can't skate ever again... He directs the fear in his eyes towards the stranger hovering over him, begging him to do something.

''T-t-try to stand up...'' The older boy slings one of Yuri's arms around his neck, hands sweaty and trembling in leather mittens as he pulls him to his feet. 

Yuri staggers a bit, fearing he won't be able to stand on his own. But he does. In fact, he doesn't feel any physical pain. He lets go of him and Yuri takes a few steps forward, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, feeling for any difference in strength. The bloody leg is sore, but not broken. In his heart he casts a tight grip over his newly acquired quad toe loop, cherishing it in his bones. Then he breathes out a huge sigh of relief, realizing that the hit had been slightened by his training bag, that apart from minor injuries, a few scratches on his hands and legs, Yuri is okay.

''Are you out of your fucking mind?!" He screams, now that he's alright and hell can break loose without consequence, for him at least. 

''I'm sorry! I was- you were- I'm so terribly sorry...'' The stranger breaks in conjugation and apology, bits and pieces of his thoughts still dazed, pearling sweat shining on his bronze face, turned a sickly color. ''Let's- let me do something about it, please-" 

Yuri is already only half listening. When he sees Yakov come out of the rink, the terminal frown on his face deepening in confusion at the scene, his legs move of their own accord.

''Okay. Get me out of here,'' he all but orders, throwing his bag at the stranger. The boy blinks as Yuri opens the door to his car and is already found lounging in the passenger seat. ''Quick." 

At this point he can't do much more than oblige and indulge him, putting his bag in the backseat before getting in and driving off. 

He clears his throat. ''Where are we going?"

''Just drive.'' 

Yakov's reversed expression in the rearview mirror is worth getting hit by a car, Yuri decides on the spot. He feels vengeance burning in his narrowed eyes, stretching his lips into a smirk. But even his own reflection can't hide the confusion knitted between his brows. This is what he wanted, to get back at Yakov, and it should feel sweet, not like a bullet just went through his chest and came out the other side, leaving a gaping hole in his back. He should be loving it, basking in his petty victory but all he feels is hollow, more hurt, more alone. Was this even his own revenge? How did Yakov manage to turn it around on him so fast? Then Yuri sees it with obscene clarity; as though it's been staring at him all along, though he was too blinded by his own hatred to see it, the possibility that Yakov hates him right back. He'd just been too close to the truth to believe it, until it was close enough to hit him where it hurt. He's gone too far this time, he knows, because he just got hit by a car, for Christ's sake, and it doesn't hurt as much as realizing it.

When they're a few blocks down the road and he can't see him anymore, Yuri turns away from the window.

''Stop here,'' he says, and it's so soft he has to repeat himself to be heard.

''Right here?" Yuri's about to open the door and out when warm fingers clutch his own on the handle, only for a second but long enough to startle him into staying put where he is.

''We should get you checked up, just in case,'' the guy says. 

''I'm fine.''

''You don't look fine.'' 

Yuri sighs. Of course he isn't fine, and of course the other knows it. At this point the whole issue lies in who will win the little game they started, who will tire first of asking the other to give up. And maybe it's the words, or the guilt in the other boy's throat through which they seeped, everything coated in worry and intention, but Yuri feels himself slipping. The boy gestures towards his injured leg, not dating to look at it. So Yuri pulls his sweatpants carefully up his leg, revealing a coagulated river of blood and an inch long dent in his knee. And now Yuri's not sure at all why he ran away earlier, because all he wants is for Yakov to see it. 

"Is it painful?" 

''Feel nothing,'' he says harshly. But his voice cracks as he does, and then it's game over. It shakes him like a storm, his face disappearing in a tangle of hair and trembling fingers as he cries and cries and won't stop crying, muffled sobs and hiccups that the other can hardly stand. His hand hovers over his shoulder as Yuri turns his back to him, wishing to bring comfort but frightened to do the opposite, to touch too close to the wound. It goes on for a minute or two before coming to a stop, a peaceful silence ensuing where the knuckles on the steering wheel find color again.

''Should we get band-aids?"

Yuri shrugs, sniffing against the sleeve of his hoodie. Then the dark-eyed boy drives off again, slowly, as if scared that Yuri will change his mind if he so much as makes the wrong move. But Yuri is slumped against his seat and won't protest anymore. His eyes are tiny, injected with blood. He keeps rubbing at them, making red blotches appear on his face. Their gazes meet for a split second and if Yuri wasn't so ashamed already, he'd tell him to keep his eyes on the road before he hit someone else. Yuri knows he's reached his breaking point. Or maybe the breaking point was getting hit by a car and running away in it. Either way he broke down, and now he's sitting calmly in a stranger's car going God knows where, to the pharmacy, as if that was all it took to fix him. He's starting to regret his spur of the moment decision, his spur of the moment way of being, so he just sits and looks out the window as the streets pass him by, wishing he could shrink onto himself and disappear.

He waits patiently, locked inside the car, watching as the young man crosses the street in a lazy trot and enters a drugstore. He comes back with a pack of wet tissues, antiseptic spray, a dozen band-aids, and lollipops. Yuri turns the darkest possible shade of red. Isn't he closer to the age of buying condoms than lollipops?

''Seriously?"

''Grape flavored.'' He sighs. ''I panicked.''

Yuri relaxes a little; simple misunderstanding. At least he's not the one who should be embarrassed. The older boy blushes and rubs the bridge of his nose, and Yuri feels the smallest of smiles tugging at his mouth.

''Give me your leg.''

''What?"

''Your leg. So I can patch it up.''

Yuri looks out the window at the flow of people passing by on the street. ''Here?''

''It's as good a place as any. The windows are smoked. No one can see anything from outside.'' Yuri dumbly takes a look at them, as if that would help him see the difference. Then he turns back to his stranger, realizing only now that they're locked in together.

''You could murder me right here,'' Yuri thinks out loud. It isn't the first thought that crosses his mind right then, and it's like the other boy knows it because he's already blushing, and Yuri's blushing, and they both look anywhere but at each other.

''I'm actually kind of doing the opposite of trying to murder you.'' He gestures towards the bag in his lap. ''Good thing it's also soundproof; no one will hear you scream.'' Yuri looks at him like he's grown a second head. ''When I spray antiseptic on that wound, I mean.'' And Yuri stares for so long the boy actually looks behind him.

Nevertheless he extends his leg over to his seat, putting it awkwardly on his lap. The boy wipes the blood away, not noticing, or pretending not to notice Yuri's focus on him. But Yuri's gaze is unforgiving, cast on the mellow, slanted eyes sinking underneath straight brows, straight nose, straight mouth, straight everything making Yuri's heart shrink on itself even further inside his chest. But his working hands, Yuri notices, are long and graceful. A dancer's hands. And when he looks back up to his face, it feels like they're a little closer than they were just seconds ago, like trust built a long time ago settles in the atmosphere between them. It feels like seeing a mirage, an oasis in his lost eyes. Didn't they remind him of someone? Something? A feeling brief, long gone but never really forgotten, still living somewhere, burried in the marrow of his bones? Maybe. But it was deep. Too deep for him to see anyway. 

When he's done and Yuri looks at his leg, he frowns.

''Why are there teddy bears on them? That's disgusting. Couldn't you get regular patches?"

''They didn't have any.''

''They didn't have regular patches at a drugstore?''

''I liked them.'' 

Yuri's mouth clams shut on its lack of speech. ''You could have at least gotten ones with cats.''

''You like cats?"

''I-I don't like cats. I mean- I have a cat. What even is this about? Are we getting to know each other now?"

''It's just..." he sighs, "I'm sorry. I just don't know what to do to make it up for..."

''For running me over?"

''I haven't felt right since then. It was a close call...''

''Damn right it was. I can't tell you what trouble you'd have been in with my coach, he'd have decimated you with one look. Right on the spot.''

''Was that him back there?'' Yuri nods, looking away. ''Why did you run away from him?''

That Yuri doesn't know. He felt too many emotions at once to be able to explain any of them, his heart like a ball made of different colors of Play-Doh mixed together; black, and ugly. 

''I'm his only hope,'' he says. And the lie tastes sweet on his tongue. He thought that if he said it out loud, then at least someone would take the chance to believe it. His throat tightens painfully. ''What's your name?" 

''Otabek... Altin.'' The name sounds nice enough to Yuri, and he relaxes a little. There. Not a complete stranger anymore.

''I'm Yuri Plisetsky.'' 

He nods. ''I'm sorry for what happened, Yuri,'' he says, ''I really want to make it up to you in any way I can.''

Yuri's flushed, not used to being addressed politely or having anyone care for his feeling. But he did hit him with his car, didn't he? ''You could...'' Yuri mumbles, dragging the words around to test the other's reaction.

''What? Could what?"

''Forget it.''

''Tell me.'' Otabek reaches out to Yuri, stops a centimeter from his shoulder, hesitant, before promptly taking his hand back to himself. Yuri feels disappointed. He had touched him before, why not now?

''If you want to...'' Yuri says, trying for his life not to feel selfish, ''you can drive me to and from training, when I need it, until the wound heals.''

Until the wound heals. Otabek thinks about it for a moment. Which wound, exactly? But as he watches Yuri, nervously kneading his thighs with the palm of his hands, Otabek can't help but get used to the sight of him sitting there, of those long and thin fingers touching everything, his had lost their graciousness so long ago. He smiles at him.

''You just want to get to ride in this beauty, don't you?" He says, knocking on the steering wheel.

Yuri blushes a thousand shades of warm colors at once. ''Hell yeah. What else do you think?!'' The look on his face is a masterpiece of flushed anger. In spite of it, because of it, Otabek is delighted.

''I'll do it.'' 

Yuri doesn't look at him, but he heard him alright. The grin widens on his face, and doesn't even try to stop it. Could it really be this easy? With his fingertip he starts tracing the curve of the bear on his knee.

''Okay,'' he says. 

And the look he gives Otabek is one of compassion. Because the boy had it coming, and now the bullet's shot. But as their eyes lock, through the wild strands of his blonde hair, Yuri sees the same determined look he sees in the mirror, and the same sorrow he wakes up to in the morning. 

It really is a sweet, sweet ride, after all.


	4. Blue Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life isn't always easy. Sometimes updates come on time, sometimes they get delayed. Severely. Apologies.

At dusk, when the sun disappears and Yuri pushes the sliding door open to his balcony, he sneaks a look at the flowers in the next apartment. He looks at the soil, dark and moist where small, soft green leaves emerge from the stem of geranium pots. And it might just be the cold, but he shudders, as if aware of a pair of icy eyes watching him, making sure he noticed. He breathes in the frisky air, fills his lungs with the smell of earth and green and promises in tiny burgeons and feels his heart, his neglected, forgotten heart, regenerate and swirl with health and emotion. 

Yuri's felt that way before, on very few occasions, but it was never quite this. It was only ever a shadow of this, trying and failing to resemble this. And though this isn't even quite something, it's already too much for him, almost more than enough, almost everything, blessed and real and consuming Yuri's every last nerve. While he works on his garden he perks his ears up, alert as can be, and if he's lucky he'll hear some clattering or footsteps next door, then he'll stop and take his glasses off to listen better. This is Victor pacing. By now Yuri's learned the sound of his footsteps so well he could match the beat of his heart to it, so he could live and breathe to Victor walking around, clattering cutlery, Victor crying, drinking, doing things all people do, only this is Victor, and to Yuri that makes all the difference in the world. 

So he lingers there, though never more than a few minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of something through the glass doors. Most often the opaque curtains are drawn, and he can only vaguely decipher whether or not the light is turned on in the living room. Still, he takes his time with his flowers, more time than necessary, waiting for a chance of Victor coming out to meet him there, on common ground. He's so awfully sure that if he extended his hand out toward him, if Victor was willing to meet him halfway, then they could shake hands. If only Yuri had told him to only water his plants at the end of the day so the moisture doesn't evaporate from the soil. But he figures Victor has other things to do at the end of the day, and in the end Yuri goes back inside disappointed, restless and left alone still waiting. No fair, Victor, what use have you got for staying inside on your own all day, not that I'm not the same, we could talk, I've so much I don't want to tell you about. 

Then Yuri returns to his own loneliness, only silence and himself, with the clattering of his own dishes, and the sound of his own footsteps, so uninteresting. But he doesn't care about that anymore. His life is full of things that never existed concretely before but suddenly do now, and he doesn't have time to think of where he fits in because he realized that he is right there, in the middle of it. And he can't be bothered with how adequate he looks in the full-length mirror, or what he's going to eat or how long he should walk and the long due assignments left unattended on the living room table, because for once Yuri feels alive, significant. Was it ever so much to ask? He's in the centre of the stage while the scene is playing, and all the things he did less than a week ago could have been a dream, could have never happened at all because less than a week ago the life he'd put on hold, the one that was torn from him as he left the arena in Tokyo where his parents drove him to see his idol ten years ago, it finally resumed. So Yuri can breathe; the nightmare is over. 

He needs it to be.

Victor told himself he wouldn't see ice again except at the bottom of his whiskey. Final.

He made a point not to pack his skates when in a moment of insane agony he went online at three in the morning and booked the next flight to Japan. It was sudden enough a decision to numb out the pain for a moment. It felt so good then, to just leave, that he didn't even see what he was packing; it was a haphazard mess that he threw into a suitcase while drunk on a mixture of tears and alcohol. And while he couldn't tell the first item that was missing or mistakenly taken on a whim, all the way to the airport it was the damned skates he kept thinking about. 

He'd never travelled without them before. It felt like leaving his heart in Russia, which was initially the plan. He was losing his mind running from one hotel to the next with the press hot on his heels, a bunch of mouths frothing for so much as a glimpse of a frown on Victor Nikiforov's face to show the world, to announce that he was finally broken. Because Victor Nikiforov never broke before. He just didn't. Someone had once stopped him on the street and told him that until meeting him they thought he was ten feet tall. He'd laughed and brushed it off then, silly thought, but although he didn't show it, he knew very well that he stood on a pedestal. And he stood very proud on it, though he knew how narrow it was, just as he knew he stood alone.

So by the time he was buckled to his airplane seat, staring at the clouds underneath him wondering why he still hurt even so many feet above the ground, he realized quite dumbly, that he had nowhere to run to from himself. And the chuckle he let out startled the lady sitting next to him, who was reading a Stephanie Meyer book, and judging by the weary look she gave him, didn't think at all he was ten feet tall. 

So far Victor has kept his promise. He hasn't skated since he set foot in Hasetsu. It's not like he could if he wanted to, even though the most innate part of him needs it like breathing, because sometimes he's walking and he forgets he should take steps instead of gliding forward. He used to find it funny, now he can't take it. He can't remember a time when he didn't know how to skate, when he wasn't one of a kind. Now that he's resolute not to have anything to do with it anymore, every reflex hurts. Every move memorized, etched in his muscles, his feet, unescapable. He wishes he could step out of his skin, forget skating, forget medals, forget who he is, because every time he remembers it's like hitting an electrified barrier; the shockwave makes him scream and recoil and hate himself more than he did before, which shouldn't be possible, but by all means is, and it doesn't surprise Victor as much as it startles the wounds prodded wide open. 

It's funny, Victor thinks, how readily things just go to hell; the life that has been as well as the life that has yet to be.

If he stands really still, sometimes he just doesn't feel anything, and that's the best he's got. He pushes the thick brown curtains aside and stand by the balcony, with the glass doors closed, no air moving, nothing moving. A ray of sun warms his face, and though he can't seem to enjoy it, he shuts his eyes, sees the picture of blackness, the beam of light tingling his lash line. The calm feels a little like resurrection, and if it lasts long enough, if he remembers, he'll slide the door open and water the dead flowers. And that'll be about it. 

He doesn't really know why he does it, but the young man with blue glasses told him the geraniums would bring him comfort. He didn't believe him, though it sure sounded nice when he said it. It ignited a faint spark in him, which hurt a little, as did everything. But day after miserable day, he can see the geraniums growing greener, round leaves sprouting where there was almost none before. It doesn't make him feel better, but he thinks maybe if he keeps watering them from time to time then the boy, Yuri, he said he was—he's glad he still remembers, he was a little drunk then, when they talked, a little numb—maybe Yuri will see it, and he won't think badly of him. For some reason Victor can't have that boy think that of him. He's becoming mortified, disappointing one person after another, disappointing himself. So maybe if Yuri thinks Victor is a good man, maybe at least in his eyes, if he doesn't forget the flowers, maybe he could pretend that he is one. 

Victor saw the Ice Castle of Hasetsu on his way from the airport to his holiday home. The plan was to hole himself up in an unfamiliar place that wouldn't remember him after he left it. He would leave no trace, not remember a thing. It's what he did, at least until he suffocated and next thing he knows the doors of Castle Hasetsu open in front of him, with the familiar smell of lobbies that always makes him nervous and the fresh, cold anticipation that makes him shudder though he's wearing a hat to put his silver hair out of view and a scarf up his chin. He enters through the spectators' door and finds himself a discreet spot in the last row of the bleachers. For a while he watches young people skating around to the music blaring from the speakers. To Victor it's like watching the ballerina twirl round and round in a music box, exiled far away from his dreams in a place where he doesn't have much else to do than just listen to the lull of the high-pitched notes that tickle at his ears. Sometimes the scene in front of him blends with flashes of his own memories, like watching the Olympics, watching his friends, only from afar, in a different time, a less happy time, and all alone. 

The children skate around in circles, most of them a little clumsy, definitely trying too hard, out of breath, hands everywhere. He wants to get down there on the ice, on the impressive gold plated skates he left at home, show the kids a few tricks, put some stars in their eyes. But the mere thought of it triggers his mental barrier and he jerks back into his seat, heart aching a little more than it did before. The music is becoming a nightmare of its own in Victor's ears, and the fact that it came to this only serves to remind him that the game is over for him, that he should have stayed away. Sitting in the bleachers, in the background of his own life while it unravels in front of him, he doesn't know how he sank so low that he couldn't even listen to some pop music the way others could, skate as others could. It wasn't amazing but it was still skating, and still enjoyable, still somewhere the centre of his shambled life, but he couldn't help himself, couldn't take a step, could only recoil. Tears of shame prickle at the corners of his eyes as he sits cornered and powerless.

An intrepid little girl dashes past falls back on her rear trying to avoid running into someone. Victor feels his mouth twitch, not quite a smile, a false alarm. It sure isn't funny during competitions, but a little kid falling over learning how to skate is always heartwarming. A supervisor slides towards her and gracefully pulls her back onto her feet, laughing as he dusts the ice off her pants. Victor can almost see the crinkles by his eyes, the corners of his mouth stretched in a smile and it feels curious, because he's far away from the scene but he's almost sure, that if the young man lifts his head, and Victor's heart jumps in his chest when he does, landing on a fuzzy cloud as he sees exactly the person he expected to see, give or take a pair of glasses. 

Come to Victor's mind the beautiful flowers on the balcony, cryptic behavior and chosen words. And when Valerie by Amy Winehouse starts booming around the place, Victor doesn't find it so intrusive. His heart beats a funny rhythm. Yuri flips around and when he starts dancing on the ice, Victor feels fire in his legs. He watches him as he moves around, blessed with lightness and grace to the tip of every finger, and Victor wonders how he didn't notice it before. He surely must have; it's more than obvious to him now, that behind his careful demeanor was more than only one trick up his sleeve, that the garden wasn't the only thing he had for show.

Yuri. His name somehow feels heavier than it did before. And his eyes are closed but Victor's are wide open. He's blessed, isn't he? Skating like an angel in a tracksuit, amplifying the music, amplifying the hopeless beat in Victor's chest that doesn't know anymore what to ask for but wants to ask anyway. Dancing like he was born to do it, brisk shifts and turns and jumpy steps and hip slides and the most carefree of smiles, so bright that Victor feels it on his own face, and the realization almost makes him cry. Who knew, Victor thinks to himself over and over, that his heart could still start up? He doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Yuri's eyes suddenly open, mischief and playfulness oozing out of them and Victor holds his breath because he knows it's coming, just as Yuri swings his leg, arms crossed, and Victor almost jumps in his own seat, all nerves, light spreading all throughout him like electricity when he hears the familiar clatter of the blade against the ice, and Yuri's fists pump in the air as he lands his double axel. And Victor doesn't know why he's surprised, he's seen double axels by the dozen without batting an eyelash, but this? He relaxes in his seat, shuddering, partly from the cold, and partly from the sudden surge of adrenaline. It's such a relief he's shaking with it. The pain is still there, he can feel it in his joints but his heart, even plagued by sorrow, for once aches for something else.

The music changes. At some point Yuri starts skating with a brown haired girl. They look like friends, at least that's what Victor decided. He takes her by the waist and they drift into a waltz and victor can hardly stay put. He wants in, he realizes. Then he's really crying. What a poor mess you are, Victor.

For the next hour he watches Yuri, only Yuri, Victor couldn't care less, he just wouldn't, he wished for Yuri to be alone on the ice, skating round and round, and he wished he could look for hours, he wants to see him, and he wonders if it's obscene, because Yuri doesn't know he's watching him. He wonders what he'd think of him. What a creep, he'd think. 

Public training hours come to an end and the kids soon file out of the rink followed by the adults. But Yuri stays behind. He looks around and Victor recoils into himself for fear of being recognized. Yuri's got his blue rimmed glasses back on, more recognizable, panting, beads of sweat on his face. He stands in the middle of the rink bows down a few times, saluting an audience mostly imaginary, because other than Victor, whose presence Yuri didn't notice, the few parents who had assisted to their kids skating from the bleachers were gone. 

Victor walks through in the dead of night, going home, starts thinking he could go out and visit it someday while he's here, it's not so bad. The tip of his nose is cold and he's breathing autumn into his lungs. He has brief feeling that he isn't dead, or rather, that his life isn't over and whether he wants it or not, he's not done for. He still hurts so much he's losing his mind, but while he doesn't know what else to do, the night air is still sweet to breathe in, like roses. 

Blue roses, he's sure. 

The roses and geraniums on Victor's balcony had just started to feel better. The geraniums were deep green again and Victor didn't even see the tiny red rose that bloomed there. He hasn't appeared in a long time, Yuri knows, because the soil has gotten dry again and the rest of his plants could use some care, too. Yuri hasn't seen Victor since he talked to him. He hasn't shown up in his apartment, in his room or in the kitchen, but Yuri has only been getting better. But Victor hasn't.

Every night Yuri listens to him sob through the living room wall. He presses his ear to the cold surface and hears every complaint, every phone call denied, every glass and bottle clattering angrily. He hears the huffs and the shaky breaths and sometimes he has to tear his ear away from it because he can hear the anxiety. When he comes home in the evening the lights are on, he can see it through a crack in the brown curtains, yellow light that's been hurting Victor's blue eyes while they looked at everything, red and drunk and confused. And Yuri wonders why. He sits there late at night while it goes on, and falls asleep uneasy.

But all morning can't hear it. He can't hear anything from the other side of the wall, and at first it's alright with him. He makes coffee but doesn't drink it, for some reason he's already jittery. He has a feeling something's not right, and when he goes out on the balcony and tries to peer into the crack in the curtain into the next apartment, he sees the light is still on. 

Of course Victor may have slept with the light on. Of course he must still be sleeping. But could it be? Yuri doesn't welcome the idea. Because he has another. Because he can't handle not knowing anymore. Because he doesn't know what he's waiting for, what he's looking for now that it's living right next to him. So he doesn't know what he's doing, he's out the door in his slippers and the knot in his stomach feels like he's swallowed a swarm of bees but he knocks, and then it's too late to step back. He's shaking all over, his hands, his his breath. The thud in his heart is loud in the silence of the corridor. No answer comes so he knocks again, this time more decidedly, a little more confident. It's unlike him to dive in without a plan. He doesn't know what he'll say but he knows he'll say something. And for now it'll have to do. He bounces back and forth on his heal waiting so after the third knock, hating himself, he really shouldn't be doing this, he turns the knob with the slightest possible noise and to his surprise, it opens up.

He watches the door come ajar, revealing the apartment inside, quite exactly the same as his, except entirely mirrored. The smell is different from his and his brain is already drunk on it. He's sure he can't take it. Is this what Victor smells like? He doesn't hear any sound. 

Victor's name is on the tip of his tongue, about to be uttered but it feels silly. And for a second he wonders if he didn't just imagine it all. He does that after all, doesn't he? He could be getting into a perfect stranger's house, who'll be positively freaked out and call someone on him. Where would that leave him?

''V-Victor..." He calls in a whisper. No answer yet. Maybe he went out. But he can clearly see the light in the living room on. He clears his throat and calls again, taking a step past the threshold. All encompassing warmth wraps around his body as he takes in the smell, something foreign, something Western, something personal. A sick part of him tells him he knew all along that this is what Victor Nikiforov smells like. He smelled it before, long ago, got a kiss on the cheek. He could wallow in it. He shudders, his eyes stuttering closed for a moment before fully walking in. And when he sees him he stands there for a minute, watching the man on the floor, passed out cold in his mess of vodka and whiskey bottles, and in a moment of panic he really considers leaving because it feels like something he shouldn't see, forbidden intimacy. They hadn't shared nearly enough for Yuri to be allowed to see this, barely names, and still, Yuri thinks, maybe that's why he should be the one to do it, because Victor doesn't owe him a thing yet. And if Yuri doesn't do it, then who will? He didn't receive any visit during the length of his stay, Yuri would've known, he checked through and through. 

Slowly he makes his way to him, each step feeling somewhat stolen and blessed, decisive. He gathers the alcohol and puts it aside, far from reach then kneels down next to Victor. This is what life should be all about, he thinks. He doesn't dare do more than stroke his shoulder, afraid to startle him awake, but Victor doesn't budge. He's out cold. Despite his own nervousness about trespassing into his home, he advances shaky fingers, brushing the long hair out of his face, tracing the sleepy curl of his brow. He lets his fingertips linger on the white skin of his neck, close to where he can feel his steady pulse. He turns him onto his back and Victor lets out a breathless whimper, brows knitting into a frown. Yuri considers smoothing it away with his thumb. Victor looks in pain. Yuri slings an arm around his shoulders and legs, securing his body against his own before rising to his full height and carrying him to what he knows would be the bedroom and put him down on the pillows. Victor breathes something like a sigh of relief and Yuri's satisfied enough. 

He watches Victor an indecent amount of time, just tracing the curve of his neck with his eyes, discovering freckles he never knew existed, the nearly invisible cut on his chin, the stray hairs at the edge of his silver brows and even though there are bags underneath his eyes and he reeks of alcohol, in the quiet unsuspecting morning in this apartment in Hasetsu, Yuri can't imagine what the world would be like without this man.

Yuri was not always convinced that it was his fate to have once met Victor, though in spite of every single choice he made, every mishap, every unfortunate sequence of events, he could never bring himself to regret it. It was his share in the world to have laid eyes upon a man that lived halfway across the world and known, even though he was too young to comprehend it, that he would do anything for him if he could. Now that man is lying asleep in front of him, broken to an extent Yuri doesn't exactly know, and his heart is so full for him that tears well up in his eyes. And he should have words for this, he should be prepared, but he's speechless. What could he ever say to explain this?   
He goes about the kitchen, rummages around cabinets and finds mostly bottles of alcohol, stacked in lines like ammunition. The fridge is full, untouched, some raw food already starting to go bad. For the next hour Yuri busies himself, making lunch, cleaning dishes, putting out empty bottles and opening windows, and by the time Victor wakes up, groggy and in pain and wondering what miracle put him to bed, the house, with its two strangers, is a little more of a home. 

The noise around the kitchen first alerts Victor, and he strides carefully, heart beating out of its skull, hungover as he is, barefoot to see who invited themselves in. In a moment of fear he suspects it's Yakov, because in Victor's hungover mind, Yakov would have no problem traveling to the end of the world to strap skates on his feet and put him back on the ice if he knew what he was up to. The calls hadn't stopped the night before, and somehow he knows that his coach found out, that he shouldn't have trusted Yuri Plisetsky to keep a secret, even for a while, though when he remembers the face of the boy when he told him he wouldn't choreograph his debut as a senior skater, Victor can't help but moan at the surge of pain that awakens behind his tired eyes. 

There it is, guilt. The blissful unawareness of waking up could only last so long. He is still aware of the stranger in his home, and his complete and utter inability to protect himself in his state. But to his quite pleasant surprise, the slender frame, smart attire and dark mop of neatly brushed hair don't resemble a burglar in the least, or Yakov, or anyone he's not really pleased to see. Pleased but embarrassed. He suddenly wishes he wasn't in his pajamas, or hadn't drunk so much. He probably looks like hell, what with the tears most likely smeared across his face. He finds himself blushing. He's probably seen all of it before. He's probably the one who put him to bed in the first place, Victor realizes. He looks at him with a curious eye, as he wipes the countertop, checking his cooking on the stove, and when he turns around and almost jumps out of his own skin, Victor doesn't have enough time to wipe the small smile that spread on his face.

''Good morning,'' Victor says.

''You're up.'' Yuri doesn't look surprised, but Victor notices the heavy rise and fall of his chest. ''Here.'' Yuri hands him a tall glass of water from the counter. Victor wonders how long it's been sitting there for him. He takes it to wash down the warm feeling spreading in his chest. Yuri watches him and nods absentmindedly.

He clears his throat. ''Your door was open...''

''Was it?" Victor hides his smirk behind his glass of water, eyeing with interest the blush that rose so easily to the young man's cheeks.

Yuri fiddles with his fingers, already out of breath. ''You should be more careful.''

''I should, shouldn't I?" Victor is clearly having fun turning Yuri's questions against him, Yuri knows, but he also knows that by all means he deserves it. He can't explain his presence here, has no valid excuse but the truth.

''I was checking on my garden this morning and, uh... I noticed your lights were still on. I knocked. You didn't answer, so...'' He looks at Victor and for a second thinks he's having a heart attack. ''I'm going to leave now that you're...'' 

Yuri searches for the word, but gives up when hid eyes lock with Victor's. His face is burning, fuming and he's sure Victor can see it. It's a wonder he's even able to formulate a coherent thought. He nods at him instead, nodding always works, you know how it is.   
He goes for the door as fast as his legs can carry him without giving out but Victor stands in his way, barring the kitchen door and Yuri in his haste almost headbutts him.

''Don't leave just yet,'' Victor says. ''You did all this...'' He gestures at the pots still steaming on the stove, more a statement than a question.

''It wasn't anything at all,'' Yuri shakes his head, shy but resolute. Not anything at all for your sake.

''Well, give me a chance to thank you, at least,'' he says. Yuri wonders to what extent Victor is aware that he's looking him up and down. But then he looks away. ''I'm actually quite happy to see you, although I would have preferred the circumstances to be a little different.'' 

Yuri doesn't know what to say. He feels cornered, his willpower vanished, melted right off along with most of his words and probably part of his brain under Victor's unabashed scrutiny. And he can't deny that he loves it, having his hospitality forced onto him, being asked to stay when he begs to leave, one step from the door but one step from yielding, taking the former just to be asked again, just to hear the plea one more time, just to have to say it once more, because Yuri knows that Victor won't let him go anywhere, and Victor knows that Yuri knows it.

''If I leave you here a minute to freshen up, will you up and leave the way you came in?" Victor raises an eyebrow at him and a small smile fights its way onto Yuri's face, just what Victor wanted to see. 

''No.'' 

''Good.'' Victor beams, walking out backwards, as if just to keep an eye on his unpredictable guest. ''I won't be long.''

When he disappears around the corner Yuri struggles not to double over. He wants to jump around, squeal like a kid. If he had a pillow at hand he'd muffle his screams with it. As much as Yuri tries to hide his emotions he can't stand in place. He feels see-through, on the edge of indecency. 

He's just starting to come to his senses, realize that he might have made a mistake, but when Victor starts setting the small table in the living room, fresh and glowing where the sun let itself in through the wide open glass doors, Yuri starts to think it must not have been his worst mistake, because his Russian idol is fussing over chopsticks disposition, of all things, and it's such a sight to Yuri that would do it all over again every single time if he had the choice.

''Aren't you going to eat?" Victor asks, shoveling rice into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in days. Yuri wants to pet his hair. He blushes and shakes his head.

''I've no appetite when I'm nervous,'' he says.

''You keep looking like you've been caught red-handed.'' 

''Haven't I?" Yuri says, but then realizes they don't mean the same thing. Or maybe Victor just doesn't realize how deep in Yuri is, how red the hand actually is. Or does he know? Did he just decide not to care? In his head Yuri fights to see the bigger picture. He feels like he's looking at things through a magnifying glass, unable to judge the gravity of things.

Victor actually laughs. ''You've more than amended for it, if I'm fair. I left the door open after all, so it could have been much worse. Though I admit if that's what burglars are like these days, maybe I should leave it open more often.'' 

He eyes Yuri through a mouthful of soup, then carries on.

''I hope I don't happen to be the reason why you're nervous, Yuri.'' 

''N-no...'' he laughs awkwardly, looking at the intricate details on a porcelain bowl by Victor's right arm.

''Well, then...'' Victor picks a piece of tofu from that very bowl and extends it towards Yuri's following gaze. At first he doesn't get it. His mind can't process that Victor Nikiforov is handfeeding him a bite of food from the very chopsticks he's using to eat. Not letting a moment of hesitation become two appear, he opens up and takes it in his mouth. The chopsticks rattle against his front teeth and graze his lips, and Yuri could have chewed on that bite forever, it was the most delicious bite he'd ever had in his life, it tasted like nothing else, it tasted like it's just been in Victor's bowl, in his mouth, and that's not a taste Yuri thinks can be equalled. 

''Good?" Victor says, Yuri dares imagine, just above a whisper. He smiles and nods. So good he could cry. 

''You're the one to thank for it,'' Victor says. Yuri chuckles. His cheeks hurt he's smiling so much. He's never received praise in this particular way, never even dreamed he'd receive it from anyone, let alone from Victor himself. Maybe that's why it feels unreal. It feels like he accessed a realm above all dreams, a realm no one has been to but him and Victor, and if anyone happened to see them in it, they'd just think both of them mad.

Yuri picks up his own chopsticks and delves in quietly. 

''Are you here very long?'' he asks.

''I should be here a while, yes.''

''On holiday?''

''Wouldn't say so.''

''Oh. For work?''

''No.'' 

Victor chuckles, realizing how cryptic he must sound. ''Am I a secret agent under cover, tailing enemies of the federation around the world, creeping inside their private lives and retrieving information from places better left in the dark? Absolutely not.''

''Sounds like it's exactly what you do, but I'll believe you,'' Yuri says.

''I just like that kind of stories.''

''Secret agents? Mystery novels?''

''I like stories where opposites fall in love, even though it's impossible for them to be together.''

''Impossible?''

''That's the thing. They always find a way. That's the best part.''

''But it usually falls apart by the end, in most cases. One will sacrifice themselves for the other, or they eventually pay the price, face the consequences.''

''It serves to remind us that the things we live for are also the ones we die for. What do you live for, Yuri?''

For a moment Yuri holds the older man's gaze, who is smiling back at him expectantly, but then drops his head and laughs. 

''I see. Well, it suffices that there is someone.''

''How do you know it's a someone?''

''A secret agent thing,'' Victor says, cocking an incredulous eyebrow at the boy, as if to put him back in his place, to tell him he's older, and he knows better.

''The job really suits you.''

''Because I'm right? I knew I was right!" Victor's eyes go wide as he grins in excitement while Yuri's busy trying to control his crimson face and swallowing his food without choking.

"You have the look for it,'' he says, aching to derive the subject.

''Do I?'' Yuri nods and indulges in the sight of Victor laughing his heart out, as if he knew all along that he was made for it.

''Well, maybe I'll consider it. For now, I'm just...'' His eyes are suddenly far away. ''A figure skater,'' he says, sounding somewhat defeated. He takes in a long breath and looks at Yuri with a heart-shaped smile. ''But my secret agent flair tells me you already knew that. Didn't you?''

There's a serious pause between the two before Yuri nods. He doesn't know how Victor knows, but then he must have made it way too obvious; stars in his eyes, red on his cheeks. There was also the fact he broke into his home and cleaned it from the inside out with the efficiency of a genuine Snow White, but Yuri won't count that as a factor.

''Don't be embarrassed,'' Victor says, as if reading his mind, because he too is a little red, ''maybe you should be a secret agent, too.'' 

''Do you think we could make a team? They always go by two, don't they?''

The smile on Victor's face pains to hold onto his features. He stares into the void.

''You think so?''

Yuri nods shyly. 

''There's something I can't figure out, Yuri. For the life of me.''

Yuri swallows.

''How come, Yuri?" 

Yuri hums, puzzled with the sudden look of seriousness on Victor's face. Victor looks like he wishes he didn't have to explain.

''How come you knew to find me?'' His laughs but it sounds nothing like it did earlier, just dry and humourless. ''Kind of like a knight in shining armor, don't you think?"

''More like a Snow White,'' Yuri attempts to lighten the mood but Victor doesn't find it funny.   
It gets so silent for a while that they can hear the ticking of the ancient clock fixed up on the wall, the same clock Victor wished to break with a baseball bat when he was drunk merely a few hours ago and almost did, except he didn't have a bat, and it wasn't his clock to break, and the problem wasn't the clock to begin with, it was him. 

Yuri swallows. ''I told you, I noticed the light was on-"

''But the curtains were drawn.''

''Not all the way.''

''You pay great attention to details, Yuri.'' 

''I just wanted to check on your plants.''

''Why?" Victor asks and by the time Yuri is breathless, mortified, ashamed.

''Just to... I thought they should be watered.''

''Why do you worry about them, Yuri?"

''Someone has to do it, right?'' Victor shakes his head. ''It's alright...'' Yuri tries to reach for his shaking shoulders, but recoils when Victor does.

''Why do you care for the damn flowers You manage to keep yours alive and healthy. That's great for you. Why does it matter that I...'' Victor's knuckles are white. He's clutching his chopsticks so hard they almost snap in half. He doesn't even seem to notice, eyes hooded by the silver hair covering the side of his face. ''It'd be easier if you didn't. So why?"

''Because they don't have to die." 

Victor's head snaps toward him, his face an incomprehensible mix of anger and confusion and sadness, the force of it hitting Yuri like a blow. He hates it. Tears well up in his eyes. He shouldn't have come here. He made it much worse. Much, much worse. He raises to his feet on wobbly legs and leaves hurriedly. Victor doesn't try to stop him.

''You should really lock your door,'' Yuri says, wishing for the life of him it didn't come out as a sob. 

No such luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you hanging on? 
> 
> First of all, if you read all the way down here, thank you so much, it means more than most things to me
> 
> I'm aware this chapter's a bit crooked, I apologize for that, there are parts of it I didn't get around to edit
> 
> Things have been a bit hectic for me these past couple of months and although it's not getting better anytime soon, I think this fic will be what keeps me going
> 
> So if you liked this chapter anyway, if you're liking this story so far, please leave kudos so I know, it would mean the world to me
> 
> Also, a question for writers on ao3, do you edit your fanfics thoroughly? Or do you favor quantity of writing over quality?
> 
> By the way, if you wish to follow me on ig I have an account I made to match this one (@euphoria.ontoast) we could talk about Yoi, or anything really, play truth or dare (?) Also it would help keep you updated on the advancement of every chapter, update dates, maybe there'll be teasers, maybe...
> 
> Anyway that should be it for now, *claps, but softly because it's 2 am*
> 
> Next stop, Tiger Lily
> 
> Until then, stay sane :)


	5. Tiger Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a long boi. Get a snack.

Yuri is exhausted. 

He's sinking even before his eyes are closed. It's a good feeling, like giving himself up, losing balance and letting go, falling, barely holding onto anything that's left; who he is, his face, his name, his mind a timeless jumble of old forgotten sequences and blurry expressions on familiar faces swimming in and out of focus. It's a moment when everything feels easy, and all the possibilities erased by time, the palette of emotions taken away from him as a child, places inside him where the void of what may have been resides forever, all the roads not taken as he grew up and that a part of him will always miss light up, and the colors coat everything. Yuri greets them like old friends.

In an instant he's a little boy. His limbs are small and the wind brushes the soft blonde hair from his forehead. He's in his ballet shoes, and she's sitting on the swing set, the rest of the park deserted. Yuri can see her clear as day, every feature, every freckle he forgot about, every detail he could never paint right in his mind afterwards and her hair that wasn't brown or blonde or ginger, but all three at once, a mystery between Yuri's tiny fingers even when he learned much later that they call it rose gold. She's wearing her green flowery dress with beige tights, smiling at the little boy like he's the world, with him smiling right back and everything is dense, so rich and precious Yuri can't recall why he ever felt sad. Nothing bad ever happened, nothing is at stake. Countless hours are to come and the future is so bright, happiness so close to his heart that he's sure it could last forever.

He shows her the ballet routine he's been practicing, his eyes fixed on her expression even as he twirls round and round, kicking orange leaves off the sand, making sure she's noticed how free and graceful he is. She cheers and claps, and Yuri's ecstatic, the shrill sound of his laughter out of breath filling the air. The wind flaps the hem of her dress around her knees and she tightens her arms around her jacket. Yuri dances for her to the sound of the breeze. She keeps cheering him on, calling his name and he's spinning fast, so fast he's losing his balance with every step. he can't seem to stop, and realizes then that she's not cheering; she's pleading. The wind is too strong. Leaves hurt his skin as they fly around, scratching at his face, at his arms as they extend towards the sky, but they're his own arms now, his own hands reaching for the immense spotless blue. He's fifteen, not a child, and the thought resounds like a bullet shot through his brain that he has to get to her now before it's too late. But he's stuck on the dance, on the blue, which suddenly isn't facing the right direction; it's everywhere, and he's falling, only has time to realize he's falling and before his heart stops, he wakes up breathless. 

No park and no more hope.

The only sounds breaking the early morning silence are his own strangled swallows of breath, the rattling of his teeth as he recovers from the shock, the aftermath. There's cold sweat all over him making his hair, his shirt, his shorts stick to his damp skin. He kicks the covers aside and finds the round face of the teddy bear on his knee staring at him. It's placed upside down. Yuri wonders if Otabek did that on purpose, so that when he'd look at it it would look right back, so he'd have something to look at. The brown face smiles at him with the gentleness inanimated toys reserve to children. He wills the little boy he was to look right back, but if there is a little boy left in him, he won't look; he's lost in a park somewhere in an infinite autumn storm. Yuri hugs his knee to his chest, and rests his chin on it. And even if the bear doesn't turn back time to a different autumn, even if it's lost to him forever, it lights a little spark in his chest. 

''So you got yourself a sugar daddy.'' 

''A what?" 

''A sugar daddy, Yuri.''

''Scream a little louder, why don't you? Georgi over there didn't hear it.''

''I heard,'' he says as he glides by.

''It's not like that!'' Yuri has to scream because Georgi's already on the other side of the rink, and doesn't seem to care as much as he's focusing on his emo step sequence. Yuri's upper lip curls in disgust at it. When he finds Mila's eyes again, the concern they display without her own noticing takes him by surprise. He wills the brief softness it makes him feel to turn to rock hard reasoning. ''He's barely older than me.'' 

''But old enough to drive,'' she says. ''That puts at least three years between you and this total stranger, and you know what strangers do, Yuri.''

He's not a stranger, Yuri wants to say but stops himself, finding that he's missing something more than the arguments to prove it. He shakes the feeling off, but it doesn't quite leave him. 

''He... apologized.'' Yuri thinks of the teddy bear on his knee. He didn't want to take it off in the morning, it's still plastered on his knee as they speak. 

''What a righteous soul.'' She rolls her eyes.

''He's not a bad guy, and he really wanted to help me.'' 

''Yes, and now you're riding his daddy's car. Soon enough he'll be showering you with gifts and your mind will turn to multicolored gummy bear mash.''

''I hope you're aware that you're taking this too far,'' he deadpans. ''Why do you even care?"

''I don't get why you're doing this, Yuri.''

''Doing what now?"

"Hurting yourself on purpose."

"I didn't jump in front of his car, Mila.''

"Following strangers, Yuri... You could be in big trouble right now.''

"I trust him!" She sighs and it's enough to make Yuri snap, because everything he says makes it sound like she has a point, like he's not even aware that she does. "He put a fucking teddy bear on my knee!"

"What?" She raises a polished brow at him.

"Fuck! I don't know, okay? He strikes a chord in me. I don't know what it is but I trust it. There are fucked up people out there, even I may be one of them, but he's not. You pick your strangers on tinder, mine hit me down on the street.''

She's silent for a while, neutral but clearly not pleased and Yuri apprehends her next words.

''I know you only did it to spite Yakov.'' Yuri pales. ''I just think you should be more considerate.''

''More considerate, less ungrateful, more professional, less a brat-"

''Less reckless-"

''Yeah, I fucking know what Yakov thinks of me!" he all but spits the words out.

''You giving back too short of what you owe him. Even I know that. And you know you do, too.'' 

Yuri thinks of Yakov's look in the rearview mirror that day and feels he's about to get sick. ''Yakov does his job,'' he says. ''He makes me look good, on and off the ice. That's what he's paid for, right? It doesn't mean he likes it. Of course he'll show people what they want to see, smile on the pictures with his hand squeezing my shoulder. It's an act.'' He pauses to take a breath, and hates to realize he's shaking with anger. ''He doesn't care.''

''I think you're the one to see what you want to see, Yuri. You're wrong.''

''You know what?'' He narrows his eyes on her. ''I'll prove it to you.'' 

''Whatever, Yuri. Just don't get yourself into any more trouble than you can handle.'' 

''It's just a ride.''

''I get that you need to live a little while you're young, just don't overdo it.'' 

''You're not my mother.''

''Thank God for that,'' she says. Yuri glares at her and she smirks to soften the blow, to make 'I'd never be your mother' into 'I'd never be a mother,' even though it's not what she meant. She didn't mean any of it, and if Yuri could read people he'd know she'd rather have sewn her mouth shut than say what she did. But Yuri can't even read himself, and doesn't even realize how deeply it actually hurt him. Mila knows, though. She forgot to be careful, and bit her tongue so hard she swallowed copper.

''So,'' she sighs dramatically. ''Is he cute?"

''What?" 

''That guy. What's his name, Botanic. Is he cute?" 

''His name is Otabek,'' Yuri chuckles, he can't help it, because one second he's angry and the next he's got heat rising to his cheeks. ''Why, what do you want with him?" 

''Oh no, I'm just asking for a friend.'' She winks. He looks at her long enough and hard, invisible question marks and math equations swimming before his clueless eyes. She winks again and rises her brows, that really sleazy look in her eyes she puts on when she's really teasing him. 

''Ugly,'' he deadpans, though his face is getting so hot the ice around him could melt. ''He's ugly.'' 

She snorts, her laughter echoing against the walls, and the rink is huge but suddenly the air is too scarce to fill Yuri's lungs. ''So ugly you your face just turned to borscht."

''Don't you dare, Mila,'' he warns her.

''Okay, Yura.'' She smiles at him fondly, then laughs again, even attempts to pinch his cheeks.

''What did I say?'' He scolds, wiping his cheeks solely for dramatic effect. ''Disgusting.''

''Okay, okay...'' She raises her gloved hands in surrender but the smile doesn't leave her face. ''So when am I meeting him?" 

''You're never meeting him, Mila, and once this deal is done with, I won't either.'' The words feel reassuring, though when he says them something drops in his chest.

''I can't believe he's really coming for you,'' Mila says, bouncing on the ball of her feet as they stand outside on the pavement. ''Can't believe I get to meet him.''

''You're not meeting him,'' Yuri says. ''Could you move a few feet over there so he doesn't think I'm with you?" 

''Why, am I cramping your style, Yuri? You look dashing!" 

Yuri huffs. He's too nervous to pretend he doesn't actually care. He made an effort this time, actually showered, and though he's still adorning sportswear, he looks as sharp as he does during competitions, when he's training but knows there are cameras around, so he really does look dashing, all the way to the jacket sporting the national colors with the golden eagles on the shoulders. He knows he's trying to impress, to have the upper hand on Otabek, unlike last time hit him before he gets hit, before he can drool on the sparkling paint of his car, before he loses his cool and becomes violent. Yuri wants to feel big before he's made to feel small, because he has nothing to his name but just that. He's Yuri Plisetsky, and he understands somewhere in his mind that it's worth something, even if to him it doesn't mean much more than a curse; tears and sweat and so very little luck. But Otabek Altin doesn't know that, so today he'll wear it, show him what's for show, one step ahead than he was last.

''Is that him?" He hears Mila ask and he has to look up, his heartbeat like the bounce of a basketball against his ribcage as his ride pulls up by the sidewalk. He looks at Mila for confidence and it takes everything in him not to burst out laughing he's so nervous. Her eyes are as wide as saucers and he feels so proud he almost forgets he's about to faint. 

''Pick your jaw off the ground, Mila. You'll have ants walk right into your mouth.''

''Excuse the language, Yura, but holy shit, I wish it was me he ran over.'' 

Yuri looks over and he has to admit, as Otabek slides out of the driver's side, mittens and leather jacket shining in the bold autumn sun, the scene seems to happen in slow motion it's so thick with class. His sunglasses harden the sharp lines of his face, concealing any emotion he could have held in his eyes, and if Yuri hadn't seen him go livid before as he held him up on his feet, he would have sworn he was too cool to have a heart like everyone else. And though he's sure it's only in his head, he can almost smell the expensive men's perfume wafting from him, somthing rich and musky Yuri shudders just thinking about.

''Ugly, huh?" Mila sounds far away. He realizes then that he needs to snap out of it, that they're both just standing there, staring. 

''See you tomorrow,'' he says, so dazed he doesn't realize he's speaking to her in the same dreamy tone. ''Or never.'' 

''Have fun.'' 

''Yeah.'' He sighs. ''No.''

Yuri's legs wobble as he takes the first steps to his fate. He doesn't greet Otabek, just slides into the passenger seat and tries to hide the color rising to his cheeks with strands of his hair.

''You look great,'' Otabek says, coughs, looks away. ''I mean, you look well, better than last time.'' 

''Better than when you ran me over,'' Yuri argues. ''And just so you know, I don't always do that.'' 

''Do what?"

Yuri rolls his eyes, as if he thought the answer is obvious and Otabek just wants to hear him say it. He genuinely has no idea, but Yuri's been beating himself up for hours over it. ''Cry,'' he says.

''It's mostly my fault. I'm not proud of it.'' Otabek takes off his glasses, eyebrows furrowed while focusing on the road and Yuri catches himself looking too close to his eyes. The deep brown is too soft for the hardness of his traits, it gives him away. Is that why he wears sunglasses? Yuri thinks he might feel threatened for nothing, more likely by himself, afraid his own thoughts could rebel against him. But they're just thoughts, aren't they? ''And besides,'' Otabek turns to give Yuri a half smile, ''who would I tell?"

It hits a weak spot in Yuri's defenses. As much as he's trying not to give in, the question kills his apprehensions. Because saying he wouldn't tell on him is like telling him that he's safe, not a burden, and that in its turn makes Otabek a friend, not a stranger. He says it so softly that the tension in Yuri's chest turns to breath and he sighs, relieved even though he's fighting it, because it makes him weak, and he could easily cry again and disprove his own words, which even he has a hard time believing.

''I don't just... trust strangers like that,'' he says.

''And yet here you are.'' The tone in Otabek's voice cancels the effect of the previous statement and Yuri's walls are suddenly up again.

''Should I regret it?" 

''You don't remember me,'' Otabek says, a bit dumbfounded though Yuri could swear he sounds hurt.

''What? Have we met before?"

''It was a long time ago. It's not that important...'' He lets silence settle between them, hoping Yuri would say something, take a guess, anything. But he doesn't. ''We used to have ballet together.''

''Beka?" 

Otabek's whole body tenses, briefly, imperceptibly, but Yuri catches the motion, finds he can store it safely in an old part of his memory he didn't have access to only a second ago, right next to the others. And there are others. So many he feels overwhelmed. It alarms him how he could have missed it, even though it's been five years, and his whole world had changed in five years, this boy is Beka. 

''That's you, isn't it?"

''I haven't been called that in years.'' Yuri hits his shoulder with his fist. The gesture shocks him a little but when he looks at Yuri he finds him looking incredulous, jaw dropped and everything.

''I thought that was your name!"

''You decided it was my name.'' Otabek laughs, wide and eyes closed, like he's enjoying it, like a pleasure he's shy to share.

''You never told me it wasn't!"

''I liked it,'' he admits. And Yuri's heart does a flip, because Otabek looks at him longing for the past, the way he himself longs for it, fond of the memory and fond of him, because he was a part of it, and he's sitting right beside him. It occurs to him that he's more than he thought a part of Otabek's life, of his mind, that the jacket might not matter, no more than the car or anything else, because there was a time when neither of them had any of those things. Because one day so many years ago Yuri misheard and misused Otabek's name, and Otabek took it as his nickname. 

''I thought you were bullying me, at first, calling me that.'' 

''Why would I bully you?"

''You had those eyes that were really intimidating. You were younger than most of us, but worked twice as hard. The other kids were scared of you.''

''Were you?" Yuri asks and Otabek stays silent for a moment, giving him time to wonder.

''I guess I admired you,'' he says, and Yuri keeps his smirk under control. ''You just came up to me and called me Beka...'' Otabek looks like he wants to say something, but he gives up. 

Yuri wonders if meeting him had brought a change to him, if there had been a before and after. Otabek doesn't give him an answer, just keeps driving.

''We used to eat sweets together in secret after classes,'' Yuri says, only to make sure Otabek knows he hasn't forgotten all about it.

''Yeah..." Otabek laughs. Yuri can tell he's trying not to say too much, to keep his emotions from spilling over. ''So much we used to get sick.''

''And we skated together, too." Otabek nods and smiles, but his eyes aren't happy anymore. Now he just focuses on signs and bypassing drivers.

''I used to,'' he says after a while. ''I dropped it.''

Yuri wants to ask further but wills himself to remain silent. He'll ask later, when the time is right. Now Otabek's knuckles are turning white he's clutching the steering wheel so hard, and Yuri can almost see it in his eyes, he entered another memory, one not so far from the ones they shared, but much different, and much less joyful.

''Why didn't you tell me earlier?" He changes the subject. Otabek's eyes focus intently on the road, but gleam with what Yuri knows very well to be mischief. His lips tremor, fighting a grin. ''Don't tell me.'' Yuri fills in for him. ''You panicked.'' 

Otabek's laughs, and the sound of it is sweeter than Yuri thought it would be. He catches himself smiling, and there is no crease between his eyebrows. He can't feel the tension anymore, can't tell where it vanished, if it went very far or if it's waiting for him just around the corner. But for a moment Yuri doesn't want anything more than to ride in the passenger seat of this car, Beka's car, look at him smile and drive and squint at a sign written in tiny characters on the side of the road. Yuri thinks it's a great way to spend time, and for once that he's not competing against it, it feels like everything's slowed down to a natural, comfortable pace. He's actually looking at things, like they matter, and he's not just passing them by, visions skidding across as he aims for one thing and one thing only. So he's ecstatic. So much so that he's happy Otabek could have killed him, that it was him, not just anyone else, because when your friend runs you over, they're still your friend.

''Hey, can we go somewhere before I take you home?"

''Sure.'' Yuri smiles to himself, on purpose, and lets it linger. It feels good.

''Here she is.'' 

''Who?"

''I have to take my girlfriend to her dance class. She texted me last minute. Late, as usual.'' 

As if on cue, a knock at his window startles him and when he turns around, he feels like he was just punched in the guts. Not just because it hurts, but because he wants to hit right back. He would have taken that option over this anyday, because it's a cruel thing, he thinks, that he doesn't even have time to digest the mention of her existence before she's there, infinite limbs on the thinnest bust, the blackest hair and prettiest golden face. And it kills him, that she doesn't even look anything like him, that he can't compare, can't get a grip, can't think of anything worthwhile other than the fact that he's left behind, again, so fast. Hasn't he only had a few minutes to enjoy being Otabek's centre of attention? This is too unfair for him to comprehend, so when she knocks again, and Otabek leans over to his side to roll the window down for her to put her head through, it strikes him as even more twisted that she greets him first, gushing in a shrill voice wafting of sweet strawberry bubblegum that this is insane, because she loves Yuri Plisetsky, and what is he doing here, and she's Yara, and she didn't know her boyfriend knew famous athletes. She says almost all of it in one breath, and as soon as she does closes the door definitely on his newfound escape, cutting the fresh breath from his carbonized lungs, and when Otabek says that they used to be friends, he's locked into the past once more, where he'd come from but never quite left, never was and never would be able to. It was like saying that he was never to become anything more than the friend he once was. And though he only admits it to himself now that he's disappointed, Yuri really wanted to be more.

When Otabek said he had somewhere to be, this wasn't what Yuri pictured. 

She jumps in the backseat, sitting right in the middle, sticking her head between the front seats to take a good look at both of them, all the while talking with gleaming eyes, words like perfumed stickers bubbling out of her mouth and plastering the once sober and earnest atmosphere with enthusiasm. Yuri finds himself out of place. He answers questions mechanically, as he does during interviews. He knows the words by heart, and though not all of them are true he still knows to say them, because they taste like stars to the listener, not as bitter as reality. Yes, his training is intense, and he loves it, and his coach is the famous Yakov Feltsman, and he's practically his father. Otabek listens as he drives, looks at Yuri from time to time, and Yuri can feel his eyes on his profile but doesn't turn to him, doesn't try to read him, doesn't want to anymore. A part of him wonders if that's the reason Otabek's gaze is so persistent, because he wants to be read, but Yuri kills his own attempt at reviving hope, burns it to the root, sets his eyes on the road, on the shops passing by, on his jaguar printed sneakers, anywhere other than Otabek. 

''But really, how do you do it, stay motivated through all of it?" 

This time Yuri doesn't dodge the truth. He turns to face her, catches Otabek's attention on him and ignores it. ''The ice owns me,'' he says. He smiles bitterly, looks at her long enough to see the awe in her round brown eyes, which is exactly what he expected to find in them, and disgusts him not only of her, but of Otabek.

''I feel that,'' she says, all earnest. No you don't, he thinks as he looks back upfront. It shouldn't be awe inspiring. It's his curse, to be stretched thin, split open and bruised for a crowd to cheer on. Of course it's beautiful, but the doll he is knows what a terrible thing it is not to own itself. ''Right, baby?" she asks petting her boyfriend's shoulder, not noticing from where she sits the frown on his face he's trying to conceal, fingers flattening the crease between his brows. ''It's nice to feel like you belong somewhere.''

Otabek pulls over in front of the entrance of what must be her dance studio. She turns his chin towards her and kisses him, leaving a sparkling light pink stain on his mouth the shape of her lips. Yuri's face crimson; their eyes had locked.

''It was really nice to meet you, Yuri. I hope to see you again. See you later, babe.'' 

Yuri's fuming but he shakes her hand anyway. It feels small and dainty in his own, the touch too soft for his liking. Then she leans all the way in and to his horror kisses him on the cheek. She laughs nervously, embarrassed by her own zeal, opens the door and disappears, along with the aura she brought in with her.

Then they drive off, and Yuri wants to cry. Because she's so nice, nicer than he'll ever have the sincerity to be. Because there's a pink kiss mark on Otabek's mouth, and Yuri doesn't want to think of what 'see you later' means. Because Otabek knows what it means, and he won't let him in on it, or brag about it, because it's something they share between themselves, because they belong to each other, and Yuri belongs to ice and pain and Yakov, who doesn't smell of bubblegum, and Yuri suddenly loses sight of the point of it all, reducing his efforts to meaningless pain, deserved, undeserved, served hard and cold all the same.

''Are you okay?'' Otabek asks. ''You just went really pale.''

''Fine,'' he whispers. Otabek doesn't press. 

They don't talk for the rest of the ride. Yuri feels weak. He wishes he were angry instead. He can take anger. If he were angry he could scream, and then he'd feel better. But the scream feels like it isn't his, it's trapped inside him but out of his control, echoing against the walls of his whole being, till the tips of his fingers tingle, till he can't breathe and his heart stops abruptly, fallen dead like a wounded animal. Yuri wants to ask for help. But the words too are trapped inside him, and they don't want help, they say he can't, say there's no one around to help him, not with that, not with anything, they say take some more, you only harvest what you sow. He's starting to shake all over, but when Otabek puts a hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it off with a violence he doesn't intend until he has to answer for it.

''I'm sorry- Yuri-"

''What?" he snaps.

''We're here,'' Otabek says softly, and he's about to say something else, but the pink lipstick suddenly looks obscene to Yuri, so he opens the door before he can slap it off his mouth, put colors of his own on his face. He grabs his bag and slams it shut behind him without another word.

The wind reminds Yuri of the sticky balm on his cheek and he wipes it off, looking at his hand in disgust as it glistens in the light. So this is what it takes, he thinks looking at the color on his fingers, shiny, bold, foreign, happy. Things he only gets to be when he's skating, once he's suffered for them and agonized long enough.

Otabek watches him walk away. Yuri's blonde hair, ruffled by the wind, the brisk pace of his walk, hands in the pockets of his jacket, spread wing of a royal eagle on the back. He wipes the glitter of his girlfriend's mouth off his own before driving off.

To: Otabek Altin   
It was nice meeting you again. Don't bother with me anymore. The deal is off.

Incoming call...

Call rejected.

For an hour, until it's too late, Otabek considers calling again. He's pacing around his apartment. He could have just taken a walk outside, but in precise situations which involve his brain reeling and the sanity slipping out of his grasp faster than he can catch a rational thought, Otabek needs circles, squares, the measurements of his glass coffee table. He'll walk around it until he's panting and the beige carpet wears a clean trace of his incessant footsteps around it. That and he can't have anyone see him, not like this when he's about to implode. He could bump into someone he knows and then what? Act as if everything's normal? He's passed that point about an hour ago when Yuri rejected his call and he started writing a text long enough to be an introduction to a philosophical essay that would likely scare the boy half to death. He didn't send it, though. He never would have. That's what he's trying to convince himself of as he looks at his feet, moving faster and faster. He can't be doing that. 

Not again.

He can't help but picture Yuri doing evening stretches in front of the TV set, watching cartoons from the corner of his eyes, bent forward and legs apart. He'd hear his phone ring and on the screen would appear a name like Designated Driver, and he'd huff and reject it, not even let it ring, just bang the door on the other side of Otabek's soft pleading knock. And he knows, there isn't a valid reason in the world why Yuri wouldn't do that, Otabek deserves it, after all. He can still feel the sharp second when the car hit Yuri and he thought his heart stopped, how Yuri tumbled out of balance. He imagines the pain, a thousand times worse than what the boy must have felt because it's a thousand times worse than what he wished for anyone not including himself. If he wasn't a terrible person, and two seconds away from losing it, he'd try to call Yuri again, and again, and again, and that's why he doesn't. He doesn't care that it's killing him if Yuri's not worse off for it. The thought makes him feel a bit better. He should disappear, leave Yuri alone. And he does, but not for long.

Otabek holds on exactly one week before he's back to wait for Yuri after his training. When Yuri sees him waiting next to his car he stops dead in his tracks, cheeks turning red. And Otabek can tell the boy's heart just stopped, how embarrassing it must be for him and when Yuri turns around and starts walking in the opposite direction, he hates himself so much that he doesn't have the guts to follow him. Every ounce of adequacy he ever had slips out of him onto the pavement and spills down the gutter. He turns around to open the door to his car, cheeks burning because he knew it was a bad idea, knew he'd be pacing his apartment again beating himself up for ever thinking it could work. But the sound of light footsteps reaches his ears and he feels the blonde boy hit the back of his shoulder with the flat of his hand, greeting him with a pair of eyes full of scorn.

''Why are you here?'' Yuri's clutching on the strap of his bag, knuckles white. The words are blunt, not that Otabek expected them to be kind but he finds himself helpless, sticking to the speech he dumbly repeated to himself a thousand times on the way.

''How-" He takes a deep breath. ''How's your leg?"

''Leg's fine." 

''Did it heal?"

''Halfway there,'' Yuri sighs. ''It's gonna leave a scar.'' 

Otabek nods, looking at his shoes. ''Yeah...'' he whispers. ''I'm sorry.''

''You said that already,'' Yuri barks at him but Otabek can't tell if he's angry; the frown on his face makes him look softer than he's ever seen him.

''We had a deal,'' he says.

''And I told you it was off.''

''But you didn't tell me why."

Yuri turns away. If Otabek knew better he'd say he feels guilty. But then his gaze falls on the expanse of the inside of his car visible through the half open passenger window, and the more familiar feeling of rage builds up inside his chest all over again.

''That for your girlfriend?"

Otabek looks at the bags lined up in the leg compartment of the passenger seat. ''No. It was initially for...'' He bites his lip. ''You,'' he admits. ''I'm second-guessing it now.'' 

Yuri swallows. Mila was right, wasn't she?

''Did you have to buy all that?''

Otabek sighs, almost painfully. ''Guess not...''

''Did you panic? Again?'' Yuri smirks.

''No...''Otabek fights the lie in his mouth to sound true, but one syllable is all it took to betray him. ''Yes,'' he finally admits.

And Yuri marvels at Otabek's ability to make a fool of himself without intending to. You'd think a guy who wears leather mittens, shaves the back of his head and eats whey powder from a spoon for breakfast, probably, wouldn't embarrass himself like that. But Otabek has it all backwards. It makes Yuri feel terrible, because he has no valid reason to be mad at him other than the fact he simply is. At least it's what he thinks. But in the end it's not even the guilt eating at him that makes him give way. Through the window of the passenger seat he peers at a piece of light brown fluff with a heart sewn in the middle of a paw the size of Yuri's hand. It's sitting in the backseat, and he squats a little to look at it.

''Is that a teddy bear?'' he asks.

Otabek doesn't have to check to know his crimes. ''...Yep.''

''It's wearing a seatbelt,'' Yuri notices.

''It kept falling off.'' 

Yuri looks at it, then at Otabek, who seems to be wishing the earth could open up and swallow him. Then, just like the first time, and the second time, Yuri opens the door and lets himself in, throwing the bags in the backseat without so much as a look at their content to make room for his legs.

Otabek joins him then, clears his throat. ''Can we stop somewhere first?" he asks, and Yuri's neck all but snaps in his direction as he gives him the worst glare that ever graced a human face. Make me regret it so soon? It seems to say. My hand still on the handle? But instead of storming out like he did last time, Yuri decides to try a more diplomatic approach.

''Must we?" he almost screams. 

''We're not going to get Yara,'' Otabek assures him. ''Are you hungry?'' 

''Oh...'' He sighs, before the thought of food gets him excited. ''Hell yeah.'' 

Otabek should stop the smirk that plays on his lips, but the laughter inside him is hard to control. It's like a rush of childish joy that bubbles up in his chest whenever Yuri's around, because Yuri runs on high octane rudeness, a bold attitude that fits him like it wouldn't anyone else. So Otabek isn't even mad, in fact he even pushes his luck.

''You don't like Yara,'' he says.

''Do I have to like her?" Yuri answers and if Otabek could frame the expression of arrogance on his face and put it up in his living room, he probably wouldn't. That's weird. But he does consider it.

''You don't like anyone,'' he says matter-of-factly. Yuri raises his brows and shrugs, then turns his back on Otabek to look out the window, but Otabek could have sworn he saw him smiling.

''Why this place?'' Yuri asks as they take a seat at a corner table. 

He was busy looking at the red tablecloths and shiny intricate cutlery, too shy of everyone who turned around as they came in to tell Otabek he wanted to get out of here. It's a fancy restaurant, the type with cream walls, carpeted floors and soft music playing where the waiters wear bowties and white aprons. Not at all the greasy mid-city fast food where Yuri thought they were going to eat. 

''No reason,'' Otabek says. He's not impressed, not even looking at anything particular. ''If you can afford it then you might as well be here.''

''I'm in sweatpants,'' Yuri makes him notice.

''So?''

''People are wearing slacks. And drinking champagne. It's four in the afternoon.''

''So what do we care?''

''I'm not feeling very fancy.''

''You work harder than any potbellied rich guy sitting here in a cashmere shirt one size too small for his ego,'' Otabek says, and even when Yuri laughs, he does it discreetly, with his hands over his mouth so the people don't hear. ''See the women over there? They're looking at you.'' 

Yuri looks in the direction of two women in their mid-twenties wearing suede dresses and makeup, but they don't look away. He hides his face with his hair. ''They're looking at me because I stick out like hell in here.''

''They're looking because you're the most interesting person in the room. Sweatpants or shiny costume.''

Yuri is out of words. In the dim light of the chandeliers he can see the shades of brown dancing in Beka's eyes, swirling like a sandstorm as he looks at him right back. And when he smiles at him, slow and complicit, Yuri feels his stomach turn to water. 

''They're coming over,'' he informs him.

''Huh?''

''The women. They're coming over.''

Just then, two elegant figures appear from behind him. One of them touches his shoulder and Yuri looks at it briefly, then at Otabek who was eyeing the same spot before getting interested in the patterns of a napkin. 

''Yuri Plisetsky?"

''Yes?" he squeaks politely.

''Sorry for interrupting, we're big fans,'' she says, smiling brightly and Yuri notices that in spite of her classy look she has a frenulum piercing. The other girl seems too shy to speak but she smiles approvingly. 

''Oh, thank you,'' he says, and the smile he gives both of them is nothing short of angelic.

''Could you sign an autograph for us?"

''Of course.'' He signs on two pages of the notepad she hands him. 

The girl who hasn't spoken a word yet clears her throat and says in a meeker tone, ''My little sister skates, too,'' she says. ''I bet she'll wish she would have met you. Her name is Ivy. She watches you a lot.''

Yuri's eyes light up, not quite in joy but something close to it, or trying to be. ''How old is she?" he asks.

''Seven,'' she says. On a different page Yuri signs another autograph, then adds a rushed but neat 'To Ivy, from Yuri' at the bottom and underlines it with a slash resembling the blade of a skating shoe.

''Tell her to keep working hard, and give her my encouragements.'' He returns the notepad and sharpie.

''Will do, thank you so much!'' She beams at him. 

They say goodbye and head back to their table.

''Who knew you could be an empathic public figure?" Otabek teases him.

''I can be whatever the fuck I want,'' he says and Otabek feels the lights go out in his heart, but Yuri doesn't notice. 

''I'm sure,'' he agrees, and he means it.

A waiter brings them the menu and it's another thing Yuri isn't used to. He's used to find it written on a chalkboard on the wall, stand there staring endlessly as he waits for a divine revelation to choose what sauce he'll get on his kebab. Otabek spends some time lazily turning the pages, but Yuri takes one glance at the first page before slamming it shut.

''I can't afford the first thing on this.''

''It's on me,'' Otabek tells him without lifting his eyes from the page.

Yuri raises an eyebrow at him. When he gets back home he's going to call Mila and choke her through the phone because he can hear her sing-song voice out of nowhere telling him she told him so. He huffs.

''Are you annoyed?''

''It bothers me, Beka,'' he confesses.

''Why?''

''All this money you spend...'' he trails. ''Do you really have to eat in places where the napkins are swan-shaped? Who wasted their time doing this?''

''It doesn't mean anything, Yuri.''

Yuri looks up at him, dubious.

''I promise the food doesn't taste that good,'' he says, ''and these people aren't really smart, and the waiters aren't glad to be here, either.''

''Then why?'' Yuri laughs nervously. ''Why sell everything so short and then come here anyway?''

''It's...my revenge,'' Otabek says. He rolls his eyes, realizing how confusing he must sound, yet not wanting to turn their conversation to storytelling, especially if it's going to be about him, especially if he's going to be the first to tell. So he makes it brief. ''Once, I wasn't bold enough to assert who I was, slam my fist on the table and not care what anyone thought of me.''

Yuri scoffs. He doesn't get it, but Otabek didn't expect him to. ''And now... you're rolling in money?''

''It's not like that.'' he laughs, a little bitter. He's silent for a while then sighs. ''I sold my dreams.''

Yuri blinks at him. ''Dreams don't cost anything.''

''Well mine got me a shitload of cash.''

Yuri thinks about it for a long time but in the end gives up. ''Can I sell mine?''

It doesn't make Otabek laugh. He shakes his head. ''I don't think you care about money.''

''I don't think you do, either.''

''It's too late for me.''

Yuri scrunches his face, hands on his temples. ''You're just making fun of me, aren't you?''

He shakes his head again.

''Why did you do it if it wasn't for the money?'' Otabek shrugs. 

The only thing Yuri understands is that he doesn't want to talk about it, or rather that he wishes it wasn't so painful that he couldn't. ''I used to be so sure,'' he says, and looks at him through his lashes as though they were his last defense. 

He doesn't want to, but everywhere on Yuri's face are details he can't help but notice. It's like looking at a painting, how his eyebrows always crease in the middle, fair eyelashes framing his gaze as if to show there's still kindness in him, softness to be found in the rainforests of his eyes, if only to make someone wish they could have a share of it. Otabek lets his eyes trail down his short elegant nose to his lips, and the painting suddenly has a heartbeat. He swallows and drops his gaze before he's caught. Yuri has one of those shapely mouths the color of those lipsticks girls always look for but never find. Otabek isn't sure Yuri knows that, and as the picture of it imprints itself in his memory, he shakes his head yet again. 

''I don't know anymore,'' he says. ''But I don't think it was worth it.''

Otabek has a favor to ask Yuri. Would he come to this party for his girlfriend's birthday? She told her friends all about their meeting. She wants him to be there.

Yuri knew he wouldn't avoid hearing about her, even in this fancy restaurant where they look so out of place it might as well only have been the two of them in it. It still manages to annoy him to no end.

''Is that what today was about?''

''What?"

''Make amends with me to get me to your girlfriend's party. The gifts, the restaurant... Is that what all of it was for?''

''No, it's not like that.'' The look in Yuri's eyes quickly turns to disbelief, bordering on disappointment.

''I may be fifteen but I'm not that stupid.''

You're getting it backwards,'' Otabek says.

''What do you mean?''

''The gifts aren't the excuse...'' Otabek waits for Yuri to understand the subtlety, but he just huffs.

''Could you stop being so cryptic?"

Otabek can't see him frown much longer so he comes out with it. ''The party...is the excuse.''

Yuri looks down, blushing furiously because his heart is screaming and he thinks Otabek must be able to hear it. 

''I...'' Otabek sighs, because he can feel Yuri's shy eyes on him even though he's looking away, and it makes him shiver. ''I know it was unfortunate to meet the way we did. But I think... Do you think it's wrong? I mean we were friends before... I mean, I-'' Then something abruptly changes in his demeanor, like he was riding a rollercoaster up and just realized he has to come down. ''I really shouldn't have bothered you, I'm really sorry, what was I thinking, bringing you here, of all places, what the hell-''

Yuri puts a hand on both of his. He was fidgeting with a cuticle on his finger as he spoke and didn't realize he made it bleed. 

''It's alright.'' Otabek shakes his head, takes his hands away and dabs at the blood with the fancy handkerchief. ''I'll think about it.''

Otabek looks confused.

''Your girlfriend's party,'' he says, ''I'll think about it.''

''Yuri, you don't have to come to the party.''

''You'll be there, won't you?''

He sighs. ''I'll dj.''

''So, that means I could choose the music?''

Otabek laughs a little, and it relieves so much stress from his shoulders that he finds it difficult to stop.

''I doubt you and Yara have the same taste in music.''

''What? She's not into heavy metal?''

Otabek laughs again, and Yuri was never the funny type but the sight of Otabek's straight white teeth, the sound of his chuckles; he could do this all day. He catches himself smiling and purses his lips.

''It's a college party, isn't it?''

''Yeah...'' Otabek knows that Yuri knows what that implies, he doesn't have to explain. ''But you'll be with me. I'll have an eye on you the whole time.'' 

The prospect of it doesn't actually displease Yuri, but it definitely brushes him the wrong way. He raises his brows at Beka, who doesn't yet know the extent of Yuri's savage nature, and looks at him blankly. 

''You don't have to,'' he assures him yet again, ''at all.''

''I didn't say I would. I said I'd think about it.''

Before they leave, Yuri puts the paper swan in his bag and to Otabek, even that seems to mean something.

Yakov never smiles as much as he does after competitions. He says he hates after-parties but he'll attend all of them, and his hand won't leave his skaters' arm. He'll get emotional, and they'll get embarrassed. But even though his grip is too strong and he laughs a little too loud once he's had a few drinks, Yuri can't help but notice as he scrolls through the pictures on his phone that he looks pretty smug, standing in his blue tux next to the old man. He hadn't noticed it before, but there's a picture he remembers Mila taking of him stuffing five shrimps at once into his mouth. He remembers looking at the buffet after weeks of training and dieting, so hungry he believed he could eat everything on the table if he really put his mind to it. Mila did not agree and of course, he took it as a challenge to prove her wrong. Now he wants to delete it, wipe the abomination from existence because he didn't even win, all he did was embarrass himself. His finger hovers over the delete button but he can't bring himself to press it. The scene catches his attention somehow. It's one of the few pictures where Yakov isn't by his side, but Yuri finds him in the background. He's standing next to Victor on the other side of the room, both silent, arms crossed, as if posing for the picture even though neither knew it was being taken, and just looked on in complicit friendship, the coach and the champion, as Yuri shoved shrimps down his throat. A feat so historical he even has the picture to remember it.

The truth is if he didn't have it before his eyes, Yuri wouldn't believe such a picture exists. He could erase it and move on, keep lying to himself, keep trying to prove that Mila's wrong, that Yakov does hate him, that there's no reason Yuri shouldn't despise him just as much, and throw his dreams away, not even sell them, like Otabek did, whatever he did, just waste it all, put it in the trash, along with everything he wants to get rid of, including himself.

He doesn't realize how angry he is, but then he's looking at Yakov's number on the screen, at the three dots lining up, making his heart beat faster, three dots staring back dubiously, asking are you really sure you want to do this. A vague signal he can't, doesn't comprehend, he was never good at reading signs. 

Yakov picks up. Yuri can hear the ruffling, his voice hard as gravel when he clears his throat. ''Hello?"

Yuri freezes. 

''Hello? Yuri?" 

''I love you,'' he says. 

He doesn't know why he said that. It's not like he thought about it. He just told himself that if Yakov didn't actually hate him he'd say something. He doesn't care that Yakov doesn't love him, but he hasn't looked at Yuri since the accident with Otabek, and Yuri's been verging on insanity ever since. He's been coaching him, watching him, but he's colder than he's ever been towards him, and Yuri needs to hear him say something, anything. The line stays silent for so long that he thinks he's going to be sick. He's already starting to sob, mouth away from the speaker, biting his fingers so hard his teeth almost break the skin. Then he's about to say something else, something more embarrassing, maybe just say it again, but before he can, the line goes dead. 

Yuri cries so hard he actually gets sick. He can't read the signs. He just faces the consequences of his actions cluelessly, takes his beating and moves on. He will move on, he decides, riding the rollercoaster of his anger all the way to the top, but he won't do it while the place is still standing. 

To: Beka 

When's that party of yours?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well. I went a little wild.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this! 
> 
> In case you hadn't noticed, Plisetsky chapters are labeled Tiger Lily and Katsuki ones are Blue Roses
> 
> I hope it doesn't bother anyone that I made Yuuri's name into Yuri, I really wanted to stress the fact that they have the same name so I even wrote it the same. And I figured that since I somehow changed the pronunciation of Yuuri then I might as well turn Viktor to Victor. I panicked, okay? Only Otabek would relate.
> 
> If you liked this chapter, please leave kudos!! It motivates me a lot (and makes me happy)
> 
> Next stop, Blue Rose
> 
> Until then, stay honest :)


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